Rolling in the Deep
by SquirrelISDead0304
Summary: Words were perilous and deadly, cruel and decietful, and were the cause of great pain and suffering for many. But for all their peril, coveted they were for there was no greater path to forgettfulness and momentary bliss. And surely there was nothing sweeter nor deadlier than a conversation with the dark.
1. The End

**Author's Note: Uh, I'm trying something. I've only a vague notion of where this is going, so suggestions are welcome. And yeah the quotes were said to Eowyn and no the girl is not the Shield Maiden. As much as I like Eowyn I thought an OC might work better here. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own and don't want to. Besides no one can write like Tolkien. **

**He is a boss among authors.**

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**The End**

"…_thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy mind left naked to the lidless eye…"_

A shudder wracked her already trembling body. Those words never let her sleep more than a few minutes, never let her have a moment of peace, not that she'd experienced a moment of piece in the Houses of Lamentation. It was just a relative term; comparing the cold, dank, dark, and silent solitude, save for those words that occasionally passed through her mind, to endless hours of torture in a black eternity that had no beginning and surely no end.

She remembered she'd once been a Gondorian, and archer, a normal girl bored and craving adventure beyond Minas Tirith's high walls. A chance to become something more than a normal girl, attending classes and searching for a husband.

She remembered those things, as she remembered words like sun, moon, star, love, and grass. The images and impressions they may have once conjured now lost like her name, age, and previous life to the blackness she lived in.

May times the fleeting desire for her torturers to return rose in her mind, but it was the fear of the pain they'd bring that quickly squashed them, though her fear of being alone was slowly rising above her fear of pain. Maybe that is why they took so long to return, maybe that is why stopped delivering food and water. Another form of torture. Make her crave the company of her captures only to forsake her entirely. It was working.

The need to scream or sob was overwhelming; anything to let them know she was alive still, but her voice had long gone hoarse and her throat rattled and stung as every breath dried her already parched throat.

She almost wished He would return. A shudder that had nothing to do with the chill air shook her. No, no she was not so desperate, to wish for his presence, at least not yet. She didn't want to be that desperate. Everything He did was far worse than the orcs' most devious contrivances.

Maybe if she remained quiet, maybe she could die, and then she'd be free. It was a small wish that had kindled in her breast long ago and had ever been at war with her desire to live and escape, though she knew the latter were folly.

They'd stopped delivering food and water. Her end than had to be near.

"…_thy mind left naked to the lidless eye…"_

She clamped a hand over ears and shook her head. That voice, those words. If he'd spoken truly, even death would not save her from this place. The energy suddenly mustered to beg the darkness for swift demise failed as her head hit the stone floor. She couldn't even keep her head up anymore, she didn't want to try.

Her complacency and resignation frightened her mind, but her eyes closed. She felt that they had, though there was no difference between her lids and the perpetual night around her.

A heavy clang disturbed and a strange mix of joy and dread filled her. She wouldn't be alone, anymore! Maybe a small smile curled her lip, but whatever happiness she felt, was snuffed out as she faintly made out the hollow cadence of a single pair of metal boots steadily moving closer.

Using the wall she stiffly and heavily pulled herself into a sitting position. Faint hisses and tremors wracked her sore body as she shifted. Abandoning the wall in her condition would be impossible. How weak was she that she couldn't even sit without using the cold, heat devouring stone as a crutch.

Satisfied that she was in a position that would hide the full extent of her weakness for a little while, she let her eyes close and head fall back against the horrid wall. Slowly she felt a chill creep through her, and in the silent pitch broken only by her shallow breathing, labouring heart, and approaching footsteps slowly growing louder.

There was nothing left to do but wait.


	2. Proposition

**Author's Note: Here it is, a small and somewhat confusing chapter. I may do some altering to this story, as I'm not sure I like the current time frame. I may push things back to when my OC (yet to be named) was first captured. I'm not totally sure, but for the time being things will continue as they are. This is my fourth attempt at a LOTR fanfic, and hopefully I will make something decent of this one.**

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**Proposition**

She felt his presence; a dread that froze the marrow in her bones, long before he opened the door. She sensed it open, as a wave of hopelessness and vulnerability swept over her.

Eyes clenched tight she faced the wall unable to face him or the orange and red flickering of what she assumed was a torch in his hand.

Undoubtedly the light or brand whatever it may have been was a means to torture her for it had been a long time since she had seen a light of any kind. And sure she was that it would blind her if dared to look upon it, for even the flickering red in her eyelids was near unbearable.

Shuddering she heard the rustle of fabric, the crunch and grind of a metal boot stepping upon stone. He was close, much too close, and she dared not move, dared not turn her face away from the wall, and opening her eyes was simply impossible.

She was weak, far too weak to appear strong, and it had been foolish to think she could feign strength and hide her weakness from him when it had left her long ago. He knew she couldn't repel him, not that she'd ever been able to. And the heavy silence that roiled through the space between them was nearly suffocating, promising horrors she dared not contemplate were close at hand.

Once she would have broken that silence, if only to delay the inevitable, for that was all she'd ever been able to do. She would mindlessly start to talk, to ask questions of him, and it would give pause. Sometimes he'd respond, and there the times during which she could delay him seemed to grow, as if he might have appreciated her speaking to him.

Now her voice was nowhere to be found, and even if she had had a voice, the burning in her throat was unbearable. Maybe he was waiting for her to speak, to delay him like she used to when she was stronger. How long had it been since last he'd come anyways?

"Thy strength and spirit are spent." It was an obvious appraisal that she wanted to refute, but still she couldn't find it in herself to speak. "I wondered if I would find thee still alive upon my return from the Shire lands. Almost three years you've clung to life here, less than some, and longer than many. There was one whom I deem is close to your heart who survived seven. Strong he was, and an excellent prisoner he proved to be; that King of Gondor." His dark cold voice took on a mocking and almost…wistful edge.

Her eyes snapped open only to smart and squint at the blinding light beside him. With great effort, as if some heavy weight had been set upon she slowly forced her arm to move, her trembling hand to touch her throat. "Eӓrnur."Her voice was an inaudible rasp, that made more tears burn her eyes.

"I know that story; he challenged you to single combat and rather than fight him you lied and captured him when he arrived. To this day there are some in Minas Tirith who call you cowardly-"

Like soft down or snowflakes her words fell between them. She couldn't hiss as she wanted, she couldn't speak, and now that it occurred to her through whatever sliver of spirit she still had that those words should he have been able to make out any of them were likely her last.

He had heard. She could feel a malevolent and ghastly tremor in the air; a deepening gloom covering her heart and stealing away what little breath she dared to torture her throat with.

"Bring water." His words were venom.

She dimly heard a voice say, "Yes Lord," before the sound of hastening feet filled the silence and faded into a distant echo. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed he'd brought an orc along.

"Cowardly?"

A violent tremor wracked her body. And to her horror he approached, towering over her as he loomed ever nearer.

Her eyes clamped shut and turned her face to the wall willing her situation to be little more than a dream. "They say coward when they speak of me?" A sharp mail clad finger tilted her face away from the wall. She swallowed thickly, wincing when there was nothing to swallow save pain. Something compelled her to open her eyes, something outside her mind was imploring her, and she did. The torch was gone, and all that she could see was blackness, and darker shade mere inches from her face. "Ignorant little fool; I should have expected nothing less. Is not a man that rewrites history and hides behind his lies a coward-"

The nazgul cut himself off, and tilted his head toward the door. After a moment she heard the heavy and quick steps of an orc moving toward them. The faint glow of a light flickering against the stone wall, steadily growing stronger with the orc's approach.

Abruptly, the Ringwraith stood, and she felt herself able to breathe again, if only just. The orc stopped in the doorway, hesitant to approach, but quickly offered his master a water skin when the Witch King held his hand out.

"Leave us."

The orc bowed and ran. She saw the Witch King's hood head turn towards her as the orc left the threshold of her eyes however were fixed upon his hand.

Water. She wanted it so badly. Her whole body seemed to ache in tandem with her throat at the mere thought of drinking, and she knew the nazgul was aware of her need for it. But even her desire didn't quench her fear, at the prospect the water's presence being little more than a trick or torture invented by her obvious desire. Yet still she dared to hope it wasn't.

She heard a swishy noise as if he'd shaken the skin, and her eyes closed as she leaned her head against the wall. Please, even a sip would be wonderful on her throat. Please….

A cry sprang from her throat as something stuck her chest. With tears of pain stinging her eyes, her hand scrabbled in the dark for the prize in her lap. Filled, she lifted the skin and squeezed fresh cool water into her mouth. It stung and refreshed the parched skin, but she cared little as a sense of vigor she hadn't known in a long while returned to her limbs.

"The King of Gondor succumbed to thirst and hunger same as thee, reduced to begging and groveling like a cur."

The skin fell into her lap. It may have been a thousand years ago, but Eӓrnur had been a king of Gondor, her king, her forefather's and foremother's king, and she wouldn't let his memory be tarnished by a slave who had only ever played at being king. "Eӓrnur was a great king." The words still stung her throat, but her voice was stronger, though it quavered slightly.

Laughter rang throughout her cell, and she may have clamped her hands upon her ears if she wasn't stricken into to stillness. It was a cruel and vicious laugh, every bit as mocking as it was harsh and chilling. She shivered, preying then to never hear such laughter again.

" 'Eӓrnur was a great king.' What is it that you know of great kings?"

She fancied she could see the glitter of fell eyes in the gloom, lit up by mirth and malice. He had her stymied. What did she know of kings great or otherwise? Only what others had told her, only the stories she'd heard in Gondor of elder days, when men were wise, longer lived, and brave.

"Eӓrnur _was_ a great king." She repeated, but there was a loss of conviction in the words. Yet the King before was a slave to the Dark Lord, and the only throne he'd ever sat upon had been given to him by Sauron to lay waist to the Northern Realm. He knew as little of greatness as she did.

Yet even as all those thoughts came to mind her words were once more met with amusement.

"Thou fool." The words were as ice. "I must take leave, but when I return I look forward to hearing tales of your great kings."

His words trailed into a hiss that left her shuddering. The joy she should have felt or surviving another day was lost, replaced by dread.

She would have to sit in the dark and wait for his arrival. Alone in the dark, until he decided it was time to return and finish her. She didn't want to wait. She didn't want to die either, but suffering another moment on that brink, awaiting an end she couldn't escape. No she couldn't do it again. For the first time in a long while she felt a sob shuddering through her throat.

"Wait!" Her voice cracked, and she recoiled as the word escaped unbidden. She didn't want to wait, and yet… oh Eru no….

_"Thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy naked mind left naked to the lidless eye."_

She bit her lip as his voice drifted through her mind once more, and this time it was worse, because he was standing there. She could feel his presence. He hadn't left, and for a reason she couldn't fathom was waiting.

"I-I…." She sucked in a breath. "I'm ignorant and foolish you say. Then please, tell me what it is that makes a king great." She bit her lip, hoping that her words would cover her blundering desires. Last thing she needed was him having the satisfaction of knowing that she was so terrified of being alone another second that she would stoop to begging for his company.

A silence passed between them as he weighed her words or the motive behind them.

"It would do me no good to teach thee differently from what thy stories have already taught, for already thy mind has been closed, eyes blinded, and ears deafened."

"I still wish to know." The words were more earnest than she realized, not that she intended to believe a word he said to her, but she was rather curious as to what he thought.

There was another pause.

"And what would one give for such knowledge?"

She froze. Of course there'd be a price, and she cringed at the thought of what that might be. In any case there wasn't much she could give, save her life. She still had that, but it was already his for the taking, and he probably would take it when he returned.

"There is a small trifle thee could offer, that I deem suitable recompense."

She shivered. She didn't want to know. This was-why had she yelled wait? Why had her quailing spirit insisted on torturing her more? But she was mildly curious, as to what he thought she could give him. Maybe it wouldn't too bad? Anything that got her company for a while longer, and held her doom at bay was good right? Her heart shouted No even as her curious mind was already forming the question at her lips, forcing her burning throat to move once more.

"What is the 'trifle' you're asking for?"

The Witch King seemed to hesitate, whether it was to prolong her discomfort or he was genuinely deciding how best to word his answer didn't matter as she sat there quaking with cold. Maybe she should have asked for a blanket. A Morgul blanket that would strangle her in her sleep, and put her out of her misery….

"Conversation."

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**AN continued: Welp there's the second chapter. Hopefully it didn't come out awful. It is hot off the press so to speak, and if anyone comes across any blatant errors I would love a notification. Thank you, and now I'm off to write a third. I'm still working out the plot line, so if there are suggestions, I'm open for suggestions. Also if at any point the Witch King seemed out of character I'd love to be notified of that as well. Thank you for reading. **


	3. The Price of Knowledge

**Author's note: This was going to be a drabble, completely unrelated to this story, but when I was writing, things sort of went in their own direction. I feel like, getting some insight into the Witch King's motives might be better earlier rather than later. **

**And then I'll have an actual new chapter to post. **

**Disclaimer: The Witch King is owned by nobody but Tolkien.**

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**The Price of Knowledge**

His throne was dark, and his hall devoid of life; filled only by the sickly torches on the walls that made the darkness seem darker, the pale green light that filtered in through high glass windows casting an eerie where it dispersed along the walls and aged statues of kings he cared not to remember, and the quick cadence of metal hitting stone in rapid succession as his mail clad fingers tapped against the arm of his mighty chair.

There was little to be seen of him, save a for the glitter of a crown seemingly floating in mid air, the unseen head upon which it sat leaning into the palm of his hand, while the other hand idly resting on the throne's other arm continued its sonorous mantra. He wore a cloak perhaps, ghastly and impossible to distinguish from the shadow in which he sat.

How much time had passed, how long had he sat there, his musing were far beyond the scope of such a measly contrivances as time.

There was no time. He had no time. Yet the world cruelly mocked him by giving him all time; with its dizzying maelstrom of future chaos and the soul chipping disasters of the past. It was a slew of toil, pain, regret, hatred, anger, and it wearied him. And here he sat a great king languishing alone in his still hall, because he could not bear to stand in the company of his cowering servants, who hated, feared, worshipped, and envied him; most of whom were loud in proclaiming the freedom that they had, noisome in their breathing, and warm, so, so warm.

The tempo of his dancing fingers changed.

The warmth: he hated it. It made the old memories rise, of time before the cold crept over him and he became invisible to mortal eyes. Oh he remembered; roaring fires in a cheery hearth, laughter of friends, loving words from family, and the quiet peace he found gazing at the stars, which now like so many things serviced only as a reminder of what he'd lost in payment for what he gained. And there was that niggle in the far reaches of his mind that occasionally wondered- when his lord wasn't giving commands-if the price had been worth it in the end.

His dark gaze turned to the door, though he scarcely lifted his invisible head from his mail clad hand. Even his throne room, near the top of the tower's peak wasn't far enough to escape the warmth. He could feel it tugging at him enticing and abhorrent. He could mount a bird and soaring through his master's clouds of soot and smoke might be high enough to escape that warmth, but there was no height he could ever climb that would save him from his memories.

Except maybe Caradros…. According a great elf lord he wouldn't be killed by a man, Caradrus was certainly no man. Maybe he could take his chances, try to conquer the unconquerable mountain, and the accursed snow covered rock could drop an avalanche on his head, but even as the thoughts took form, the disappeared as if an unseen hand swept through his mind in the manner one would swipe dust off a counter top.

Far off Mount Doom rumbled as if it did not take kindly to insults being thought at its western kin.

His head rose and he reclined feeling a mix of relief and loathing as the unnecessary weight of memory and his need for the warmth were purged from his mind. It was both a relief and an annoyance that his master took such good care to insure troubled thoughts did not plague his nazgul, but sometimes he wished the Dark Lord would let him muse, just so he could see where the thoughts would lead.

His master never gave him time to do so.

That was it wasn't it? The real bane of his existence was time. He never had enough, and yet lived knowing he'd never run out, until the world itself came an end. The price he paid for becoming a nazgul, for being his master's favourite, the price for being the King of Angmar-no that wasn't right. Yes time was torturous, but losing life had been the real punishment, and even that wasn't entirely true.

He didn't dare dredge up memories of Angmar. He'd done that enough already. It had been those memories that had driven him here, because even after… how many years had it been? One…two thousand- he still had been naïve. He'd believed the rumours and stories of his master's evil. He knew it to be true firsthand.

But it had been that very knowledge that made him blind to reason. The Free Peoples of Middle Earth (never had he heard a more childishly rebellious name) claimed to be on the side of right, the beacons of truth, and wielders of justice, and he'd been suckered into their stories like everyone else. He'd never seen until after it was too late, the malice their virtuous slogans and stories had hidden. And he'd paid for that every day since, in the worst of ways. And they had the gall to call his master a deceiver?

He shook his head as a smirk twisted his lips. It was the cruellest of ironies. There was no doubt to any that Sauron was evil, but he was far from the worst.

That girl- his unseen gaze shifted ever so slightly, as if he could peer through the walls, spires, and buildings surrounding his citadel, and see The Houses of Lamentation, where the last of his prisoners was being kept- had been suckered into their lies just as he'd been so many years before. She honestly believed Earnür had been a great king? If she truly knew a thing about the fallen king, she would have thanked him for having so graciously gone out of his way to dispose of such a wretched life. Great King….

The room seemed to darken as memories of that 'great king' were once again brought to the forefront of his mind. It seemed he'd come full circle. It had been the haunting memories of that man that had driven him to seek solitude in his throne room, and now the dead king had invaded his haven, mocking him from afar, because Earnür as a memory had become intangible, and there was nothing the Witch King could do to harm a thought, and nowhere he could go to escape. In death Gondor's last king had won the ultimate victory; the ability to torture his most hated enemy until the end of time.

He stood, the darkness around him shifting and warping, as he strode to the window. He appeared to be one with the shade, until at last he stood before the window; the green light from beyond giving his crown an eerie gleam.

At the ledge peering out, he was somewhat more distinguishable from the gloom of his hall. Still the shadows did not abandon him entirely. They clung to the hem of his robes as if they could not bear being parted from him. Below, the shadows of orcs and men scurried about doing their jobs.

He could feel their heartbeats almost, the pulse of blood in veins, the warmth that emanated from the living. It was enough to make him sick and wrathful in his jealousy. How fortunate they were to be so warm when the world could be so cold.

His gaze passed over them, pleased that their work appeared orderly, and that things were moving apace of his master's designs. Then the Houses of Lamentation. Once they would have been houses for the sick and wearied to recover, but now they were the worst dungeons, with the exception of his master's.

They had served as the home of Gondor's last king for seven wonderful years, until the bastard finally broke; degrading himself to little more than an insect. The end when it came had been bittersweet, for the nazgul had always found enjoyment in contriving new methods to besiege the fool's iron clad will. Eventually he'd done it. Seven years; the longest a prisoner had ever lasted in the houses, had come too soon and not soon enough.

Just looking at the face of that man had been torture, as he looked upon the reason his country had been destroyed, his people; whether they'd been guilty or innocent, men, women, or children had been massacred. He would do nothing but the same to the Gondorians. There would be nothing left of Gondor when his Master's war was over. That had been the last promise he'd made to that Fool King, and he intended to keep it.

Still the King's death had not eased the burden on the Witch King's mind. Death had been too merciful an end for such an enemy, and the nazgul had never received the justice he felt he deserved. If there had been a way to have kept the king alive all these years to witness the destruction of his country, his cities, his people, in the same helpless manner the Witch King had then maybe the Witch King wouldn't be plagued so heavily by his loss. He wondered if even the destruction of Gondor would be enough.

What if it wasn't? His people needed to be avenged and so did he, but what if that wasn't enough? The elves had played a hand in his country's fall, certainly. He'd longed to destroy them too, for his sake and his Master's, but Gondor was the real enemy. If he destroyed them, and that gnawing ache persisted afterward, what more then would he be able to do?

Fear of his inability to ward off this particular demon had always been on him.

His eyes glanced at the Houses once more. They were so beautiful. A place of peace to ease his mind, when the needs of the city became overbearing. Unfortunately all that was left to him was one ragged little archer who'd been foolish enough to shoot at him and his men. There had been eight initially and now all he had left was one little girl that probably wouldn't last more than a few days….

Still she had proven to be entertaining in a manner the others hadn't, seeking frivolous conversation when the others would have been screaming or begging to be spared. He knew that it was merely to delay his advances, but he'd found the change refreshing if not slightly disconcerting to begin with, and he'd played her little game a few times, until it suited him to play his game instead, until she'd made mention of that dreadful king, and forced him to confront first hands, the lies once again.

She was going to last longer than a few days for that. He'd see to it, that she was bent and twisted, until there could be no more done to her without braking her. He wouldn't let her have an easy end, for filling his head with the mocking laughter and smiling of that king.

Conversation. He'd spoken truly when he said he wanted it- truer than he'd initially cared to accept. But even he could admit that within the tower it could be overbearingly quiet, and a voice to fill the silence wouldn't be entirely unwelcome.

She wanted to learn what a great King was. He'd tell her exactly what a great king wasn't. That perfect world she'd grown up in, where the elves were fair, the laws of her land just, and her people kid and caring would be destroyed one tiny bit at a time, and he would keep her so she could witness the deaths of her loved ones, the destruction of her beloved white city, just as helpless as he had been, then he'd make her live with the memories he'd created, haunted by them as long he could make them do so.

He glanced down at his hand. His fingers were tight around the hilt of a knife. He pulled it out, relishing the music of the metal sliding from its sheaf. It glowed faintly with its own inner light, as he held it.

A smile twisted his unseen face. His master could always use another servant.

A spring if it could be called that entered his step as he pulled away from the window, and exited the throne room. He slipped the knife back into its sheaf before exiting. There was no need to unduly terrorize his slaves, when his mere presence was horrific enough.

He slipped into the hall; hood still lowered, and crown still gleaming. He was a king. A great king. In the coming days he was going to thoroughly teach that lesson to one young Gondorian.

Now what he needed to find were a couple orcs smart enough to not abuse his prisoner.

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**Author's Note: Please, please, please let me know if at any point the Witch King was out of character. I really am trying to keep him as close to being evil as I possibly can. For reasons you'll see later. ;) Thank you for reading and reviewing. **


	4. The Road to Perdition

**Author's Note: Here it is a third chapter. I'm nervous, and still plotless, but here we go. Let's see where it leads! **

**Disclaimer: Clearly I do not own the Witch King and I do **_**not**_** want to be sued by Sauron. No thank you! The Dark Lord may keep his wraiths! Even the tall one with the awesome helm.**

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**The Road to Perdition**

Slowly she awoke to a heavy pressure in her nether regions. Groggily she opened her eyes, only to frown as they were met with pitch darkness. Becoming aware of her surroundings also made the discomfort in her abdomen more pronounced, and she wondered if she'd been kicked, but the only person she'd seen had been the Captain of the Nine, and he hadn't touched anything other than her face.

She froze, as a smile coiled her mouth. She needed to pee! The joy washed over her, as it came to her. Never had the Houses of Lamentation heard a whoop of joy before, as she clawed at the wall in a feebly desperate attempt to stand.

Giving up she crawled over to the corner where she used to do her business. How long ago it seemed since she'd last taken a leak. Using the walls for support she did succeed in pushing herself into a precarious squat. Hastily she pulled down her leggings, and pulled up her tunic, almost sighing, as a feeling of bliss swept over her, even as the hot fluid pooled about her feet.

It was a wonderful feeling to pee. How she'd missed it, and how much more refreshed she felt!

After a treacherous hobble, with pants still down, tunic bunched in her other hand, and needing the wall as a crutch she finally dressed herself and collapsed in the corner she slept in for another nap.

* * *

_"Conversation."_

The answer had caught her off guard, but after asking what meant, and being told that conversation meant talking with another person she accepted.

Her acceptance had not made him linger any longer, and so the door of her cell closed, and flaming eyed wolves were born of the darkness around her, tearing at her, ripping her apart until her sore throat tore gushing blood as she screamed, and the Witch King did not return.

The dream was the same, repetitive, and she lay curled in the dark wide eyed and afraid of drifting off; escaping her loneliness and the smell of piss coiling about her nose. She'd shifted closer to the door, and even there she could not escape the smell.

The door was horrid in any case. On more than one occasion, she thought she heard whispers, felt the presence of creatures unseen moving passed. It was why she had never slept by the door in the first place. Eventually the sensation of her leg being touched by fingers she could not slap away sent her crawling back to her original corner.

* * *

It was a heavy clang that brought her back to wakefulness. And her ears perked, heart raced, as she made out the gruff voices of orcs. They were coming for her. The Witch King had lied! 'Of course he had,' her heart snarled at her stupidly feeble mind. What had she expected? First nazgul and now orcs.

Orcs meant one thing, and one thing only. Torture. She curled up into herself as phantom pains bit her skin, old wounds flared to life, tongues of flame licked her shins as scared blisters suddenly boiled and burst under scalding oil.

He'd said he'd come to speak with her one last time. He'd lied! He'd lied to a king of Gondor, why on earth wouldn't he lie to her too? Why hadn't he just killed her? Her door opens and she cowers from the sting of s torch ceremoniously shoved into her cell. She used to love the sun, and now it would probably kill her!

Shaking, gasping, and feeling faint, she flinched as the door opened, and covered her ears. The horrid light of a torch poured in, and she shut her eyes.

"Get up yous scum! You're wanted in the…." She pressed down her ears tighter.

There was probably a whip somewhere nearby, she risked cracking an eye, only to regret it as it stung. Adjusting her arm to shield her one smarting eye she linked away tears as she located their feet.

One heavy booted foot was in her vision, and there was whip, curled loosely at the orc's side. Her eye closed and she bit her lip until she tasted iron. She felt the other approach and bolted upright scrabbling for the corner.

"Stay away!" She wedged herself between the walls, knees protectively guarding her chest. In her peripheral she saw the whip fall open as the laughter of the orc rang in the confine of her cell. The one above her looked far less amused, and she was relieved that he was too close for the other to risk swinging the whip at her.

Even if she could have stood, could have walked, and had dared to follow them, her legs had atrophied beyond the ability to hold her weight.

"Grab 'er and let's get a move on. I'm not going ta risk makin' em wait."

Rough hands grabbed her arm, and claws bit into flesh, as she was hauled upward. Her legs trembled as she sagged against the orc holding her, who scowled in open disgust because she stunk of the fetid piss clinging to the cell, or because of her weakness- maybe it was both. Her eyes closed as he turned her toward the torch.

Her feet stepped and hopped where she could plant them as she hauled from her cell down darkened corridors flickering with demonic shadows. She clenched her eyes shut to avoid seeing them, and the ever approaching terror that awaited her at the end.

On more than one occasion she shuddered as if passing through a draft, and the orc towing her would add a bit of speed to his step as though he felt it too. They were quiet, as they moved. Something about the place always harboured a necessity for silence.

Eventually her weak leg muscles gave out, and she collapsed with only his iron grip on her arm to keep her from hitting the floor entirely. The other reached out taking her arm, and she was dragged, bare feet scraping the stone floor long after they had bled.

Eyes still closed, breathing turning ragged, she became dimly aware that their walk was taking longer than she remembered, and it only served to make her fear worse.

Eventually she risked opening her eyes too fearful to be relieved by how little the torch pained them. She blinked profusely if she looked directly at it.

On the walls were carved woodland creatures once fair to eyes that beheld them, now turned demon and beast in the flickering torch.

They came at last to the doors. And her panicked mind went to her feet. She tried to drag them purposefully to slow her carriers, but they were pained and slick and slipped to easily against the stone. Her hands gripped the arms of her captures. If she didn't let go, they would have a hard time.

"Please, please, please, don't."

She sobbed as her grip on their arms were shoved off. "Please don't do this!"

He hands scrabbled for their arms only to be swatted away. Ahead the doors loomed ever closer. "Please no. No. No.N-"

"Keep yourself quiet and quit your strugglin' you don't want to make em wait." The whip carrying orc snarled at.

"Oh yes I want them to wait." She kicked and dug her nails into his arm. "The Witch King made a promise! He thinks he's great king, go and ask him if it's proper for a great king to keep his word!"

"Get the blasted door!"

"No!"

"I suggest," the orc with the whip snarled grabbing her face and forcing her to look at him, "that you quit your whinin' or I'll make you squeal."

"Please don't throw me in there." The words were a defeated whisper. There was no hope that she could deter them from their purpose. She shuddered as she felt the cool draft wash over her from the creaking door. "Please."

She was lifted. "Please! Don't! No!" She screamed as she thrust beyond the threshold, only for it to die into laboured gasping and panicked sobs at the site that awaited her.

Stairs.

The door shut heavily behind her, and she felt steady iron hands on her arms once more as the orcs hauled her upwards.

She cried and trembled between them at both the terror of some new torture waiting at the top of a staircase she'd never seen before, and the constant burning from her feet.

* * *

The landing was a narrow hall like the one far below, black as shade but the air was slightly fresher. Around her the faint hum and clanking of what she assumed was machinery bounced along the walls, and her mind's guess as to what they would be used for left her trembling, and sobbing harder.

Her pleads were twisted by fear and sobs, as she begged for reprieve, release, a moment's delay, something, anything, to keep the promise of those hated words rattling in her head at bay, if only for a short while longer.

Maybe if she could delay them she could escape, or wait for that accursed nazgul to come keep his promise. Just a little bit more time.

She cried out falling abruptly, her eyes wide as she stared at the ground and arm's length away. They stood over her, shadowy silhouettes large and menacing as the torch made warped them on the wall. She pulled her legs close and looked up at them.

"Remove your stinking clothes."

Bleary eyed with tears she wrapped an arm about her chest, trembling hand rising to cover her mouth.

"_Thy flesh shall be devoured and thy shrivelled mind lay naked for the lidless eye."_

No. No. No. She shook her head, crying out as an orc's clawed hand reached for her.

"No! I'll do it myself!" She fell against the wall quivering. "I just…"

She shook her head again, begging the voice to leave her head. Slowly her trembling fingers fumbled with the ties of her tunic. Her eyes were too blurry to see properly.

With a growl one of the orcs bore down on her, impatient with her lack of urgency. The sound of fabric tearing was punctuated by a hitch in breathing, and her arms fold protectively over her chest were roughly shoved aside, as frustrated voice angrily hissed for her to stop quibbling.

All her clothes were taken and she curled to shield herself from their leering gazes. But they turned, departed, and she heard a door slam. Before the torch's illumination passed from view it occurred to her that she was in a cell much like the one she'd left.

"_Thy flesh shall be devoured-"_

"I know! I know! Just hurry it up already!" She begged the dark. She couldn't do it anymore. She didn't care anymore. The nighmare was too long toa take and waking up wasn't an option.

Curling on her side she cried until she was utterly spent, and somewhere, through the darkness covering her exhausted mind she fancied she heard the distant sound of approaching footsteps.


	5. The Lord of the Morgul Vale

**Author's Note: I apologize for the lameness that is the intro of this chapter. I need to make changes to the end of the last chapter, and as of now I have no idea how to go about making those changes. **

**This is not the way I typically open a chapter. I hate that I can't think of anything better at the moment. At some point the end of the last chapter and the beginning of this one will go through a revamp, but until I come up with a decent course of action I ask that you just bear through the first few awkward paragraphs. **

**As always reviews are welcome, and critiques are highly appreciated. **

**Disclaimer: This is a fanfic, need I say more?**

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**The Lord of the Morgul Vale**

The walls were white, and the sun filtered through the window. She grinned as her little sister burst into her room and flung herself on the bed. Immediately the auburn haired eleven year old went off, spouting stories of her day, and about the fair-haired youth thirteen year old boy she'd been smitten with for the last few years.

After an endless stream of babble the young girl flopped on her back. "I've always liked this bed Brenine. It's so bouncy. We used to jump on it."

Brenine smiled fondly at the memories of their youthful antics, tucking a lock of dark brown hair behind her ear.

On the bed her young sister stood and began bouncing. "Join me Brenine! Join me!"

Brenine laughed as her sister jump, straining to reach the ceiling above. Squealing with delight and surprise the eleven year old girl was thrown off balance as Brenine launched herself onto the bed. Smiling and laughing and jumping on the bed it was easy to pretend that she was nothing more than a young girl like her sister, and that the threat of war didn't loom on the horizon. She reached out to tickle her sister, only to let out a scream as her as her foot slipped….

Her scream was abruptly cut off and her eyes flew open in the burning warmth. She strained upward, coughing and sputtering as she rubbed water from her eyes.

"Bitch's awake!" A masculine voice cackled.

"What're you playing at? The Lord said we aren't supposed to be spoilin' his prisoner."

Still coughing she surveyed her surroundings. She was naked, in a tub, and- she closed her eyes as a bucket of water was dumped on her head.

"Playin' and spoilin' aren't the same."

A rough hand clapped her back, and a bar of soap and a rag were shoved into her hands. When her coughing lessened the man returned to her hair, and she heard the distinct sound of scissors, watching in dismay as her once long tresses floated in snarled mats on the water around her.

The other man; dark haired and dark eyed laughed. "She coughs and those mosquito bites jiggle."

The man working on her hair laughed as well. "If she were better fed, I wager those mosquito bites would be more like mangos."

Their words were like whip lashes and she crossed her arms over her emaciated chest, and ducked her head to look down at herself. Her action was met by the mens' jeering, but she blotted them out as best she could. There was no way she was going to show them she was affected by their words, any more than they already had.

Her ribs were plainly visible, marred by bruises, scars, and welts that contrasted heavily against her ashen skin. She'd always been pale, but against the dark wood of the tub she looked white. The Valar only knew what he back had to look like. She hadn't ever been whipped though she'd come close a couple times, after infuriating the wrong orc, and quickly she learned which to orcs to avoid. But she had received kicks, hits, burns, and then whatever the nazgul had done to her. She shivered.

The nazgul; she could count on maybe five fingers the number of times he'd ever physically touched her. The soap bar squirted from her hand. She didn't know what he'd done when he touched her. His hands had been gentle, and he'd never left a mark on her. But it had burned-like ice and depression and fear were eating at her from the inside out, then things would turn black, filled with that burning, and monsters unseen, until she came too, in a feverish daze. By that point he would already be gone.

Rigid, she sat curling in on herself, as she watched more of her hair fall into the water. How short were they cutting it? She didn't really care. And if either of them noticed her change in stance- the faint tremors coursing along her spine- they didn't comment and probably didn't care. The guy sitting off to the side, scooped the largest clumps of her hair out of the water, before leaving with a mention about salt and infection.

Another bucket of water was dumped on her leaving her to sputter, but feeling warmer.

"You western barbarians know how to wash, yes?"

She opened her mouth to retort only to cough and spit as yet another bucket was dumped on her head and she had no option but to nod amid her coughing and hope he could differentiate between her body movements. He'd thrown that one on her for the fun of it she was sure.

Evidently he did because he got up to follow his partner, but not before pausing in the narrow doorway. "The king isn't patient- not giving much thought to baths and such, so you'd better be done before we return. Or we'll bathe you ourselves." The grin on his face as he closed the door partway behind him let her know exactly what he thought of that of his last treat.

Grimacing at his words she hastily scrubbed, flinching when her hands passed over the bruises on her chest. Some were old, some weren't and one along her side was mottled with blue red and green. Then there were the cuts and scrapes, some scabbed over-looking larger than they were-with the congealed blood that had been allowed to dry around them, and some of them were red, tender to the touch, inflamed and oozing.

She yawned as she washed; the heat of the water making her drowsy. It wasn't long before her eyes were heavy and her hands had nearly fallen still. The embarrassment that came with the idea of two Southeron or Easterling men bathing her was all that was keeping her awake. Sluggishly she forced her mind to recall how she'd ended up here.

She been dragged through the houses by orcs...stripped- she yawned and rested her head against the wall of the tub- and she'd fallen asleep? And now she was… the warmth felt so good… a faint smile curled her lips.

"Wake up!" Shouted words and a splash that left her snorting and coughing brought her back to awareness. She stared wide eyed up at one of the men as he glared down at her. "At least you managed to clean yourself." His gaze rose above her and she felt the other man settle behind her.

"You better not make this difficult for us or we'll make sure it's painful." She flinched at the voice next to her ear.

"What?" Her voice came out a hoarse squeak. Her question was quickly answered by a sudden burn in arm. Tears leapt to her eyes as she tried to jerk away from him and his harsh grip. With blurred vision she peaked at him from the corner of her eye only to bite her lip as he rubbed at one of those nasty festering wounds with damp rag laden in salt.

The other man was quick to come his partner's aid and began clean any of the worrisome wounds on her left side. Between them she sat with her head bowed shaking, flinching, and periodically going rigid as they set to their task. Occasionally she'd hiss or involuntarily jerk when the pain got the best of her.

Eventually their ministrations ceased and she hastily dropped beneath the water relishing the coolness came after the salt was washed away.

She screamed only to inhale water as a pair of arms shot in the tub. She was hauled from the water, coughing and spluttering before being painfully and promptly dropped into a chair. A towel was flung at her.

From behind one of the men wrapped her head with another towel, painfully squeezing the water from her hair. And the other, appeared at her side a moment later with a bowl of brown glop and few rolls of gauze.

Before she could ask, she yelped trying to escape, only to feel her hair wrenched as she just about slid form the chair.

"What. Is. That?"

"Medicine." Another glop of was smoothed across another wound and she jerked trying to escape the burn. The man only growled and grabbed her upper arm to keep her steady, while he smothered her festering wounds with that so-called medicine. She wondered if all medicine in Mordor was torturous. It probably was.

She grit her teeth and clenched her eyes shut as he continued. The other man had abandoned his assault on her wet hair and was following behind his partner wrapping the wounds in bandages.

When it came to her chest and a couple of abrasions on her back- the two men spent some time discussing what to do about them, both making gestures toward the nasty mottled bruise that spanned her right side. Unable to understand them all she could was quietly sit, dry herself with the towel that had been flung at her, and shiver as the cool air began to steal away the heat she'd taken from the bath.

Eventually they came to a decision and much to her distress they wrapped her chest in bandages. Her indignant cry as their earlier jokes about her breasts came to mind was met with laughter, and a quick squeeze from the taller of the two.

Without thinking she lashed out, smacking his groping hand. She whipped her head away as a heavy hand swung toward her face. The blow didn't fall. Instead her jaw was roughly grabbed and her head tilted upward.

"In my home country, slaves that strike their superiors are quickly removed of the offending appendage." He lifted her hand up between them. "Consider yourself lucky our master is impatient." He dropped her hand and after a few more tense second released her chin with a rough shove.

She fell limp, under the oppressive weight of a suddenly tense atmosphere that hadn't been there before. Was she lucky? Would something far worse than simply being forced to bathe have occurred if she wasn't expected to see their master? Again their taunts about her breasts, or lack thereof, and the threat of them washing her came to mind. Would they have? Soldiers far away from home; why wouldn't they?

A shirt was thrust over head and she quickly slid into it, grateful for the cover. Undergarments and pants were quickly thrown at her, and one of the men-thankfully not the one she'd hit offer his arm so she could stand and wrestle her way into the clothing one-handed. Apparently they'd been made aware of inability to stand.

She took her seat once more, as sandals were provided as well. She was in men's clothing. Apparently Minas Morgul was short on dresses, but she wasn't going to complain- if things weren't so dire she would probably have celebrated. They only question was where her new attire had come from, and she didn't dare speculate. The only answers to that question ranged from unappealing to horrific, and she was sure she was going to facing a new onslaught of horror shortly. There was need to torture herself.

She winced as a long wooden box smacked across her thighs. She looked up into the dark eyes of the man she'd hit. Payback. Ignoring him she shifted her gaze back to the long box in her lap. The only thing keeping it closed was a simple black thread.

Uncertain but curious she pulled it lose. She felt the men edge closer to look. A few sparse words were uttered between them. Maybe they knew what it was, or who had sent it. She lifted the lid, frowning.

Within was a walking stick; sable and shiny. The only adornment was on the knob for her hand: a silver crescent moon marred by the face of a grinning skull. She scowled at it. The standard of Minas Ithil, had been a crescent moon, and it seemed the Lord of Minas Mogul had felt sentimental to keep the old symbol and make a mockery of it with his own accursed symbol. There was no way she was going to use it.

He'd probably cursed it or poisoned it- who knows what he'd done with it. And to even consider accepting it-

She was roughly hauled to her feet.

"We must go."

The men eyed the staff dubiously. Maybe they shared her fears, or maybe they thought the Witch King would know if someone other than her had touched it.

She was lifted, nearly dropping the lid, box, and cane, before managing to catch hold of the box's bottom and the rod. The man not holding her swiftly picked up the lid and dropped it into her arms before hastening toward the door so he could hold it open as his partner carried her out.

She clung to the box and the man's shoulder as he bore her through a long corridor. The halls were dark, save for the flickering of sickly torches and a strange pale greenish light that emanated from within the stones of the walls. The green light did nothing other than make the darkness that clung to the hallway seem darker, and the shadows of the men and the girl seem monstrous.

"What is it?" She didn't like it, whatever the green light was.

"Corpse-light," the man walking alongside them said in hesitant voice barely louder than a whisper.

"Sorcery." The man holding her frowned, his dark eyes troubled and apprehensive. She tried not to frown in turn, but ultimately failed. It was obviously sorcery. It certainly wasn't the wholesome and luminous moonlight that was supposed to be emanating from the stone. She'd spent many hours a day suffering the dry lectures of a tutor her parents had hired, and many more reading books about the things he'd taught her.

Minas Ithil, Minas Morgul had once been named. The Tower of the Rising Moon, and true to its name the city had captured the moonlight. Undoubtedly, this corpse-light was meant to mock the city's long lost beauty, just as the grinning dead face in the crescent moon was a mockery of the life the city had long since bereft of. The Dead City some called it, and the stupid skull was meant to remind Gondor and the rest of the world of the beauty the Witch King had stolen from them, and the stupid thing was grinning because it knew, it knew there was nothing the world could do to take back the beauty it had lost.

She felt her nails dig into her palm as her hand twisted around the neck of the walking stick as though she meant to throttle it. She certainly had half a mind to cast it the wall. Seething she glared at that stupid grinning bony face, unsure of when she'd opened the box in the first place, not that she really cared.

The Bastard Witch King had probably had the symbol emblazoned on the stupid thing just to get a rise out of her. The very thing seemed to mocking her with that smile, and she wondered if the rod would break under her the moment she tried to walk upon it. She certainly didn't put the idea past him. But then why go through the trouble of having it made in the first place? She couldn't imagine there were many walking sticks just lying around.

The sound of approaching footsteps diverted her attention, and she up to see a pair of men hastening toward them. Their clothing was nice; black like everything else, but of fine make. Muttering a few hellos they bustled past them, giving the girl odd glances as they passed, but no words were exchanged between them and the men carrying her.

Soon they reached the foot of what would be but one in a long series of staircases. The first few landings they came to were wide intersections with various branching corridors that were crowded with courtiers, messengers, servants, and a few soldiers silently coming and going. No one said more than a few scant whispers, and no one talked to her or the men with her, though she both and felt and saw curious looks cast in their direction.

As gaunt and famished as she was there was no mistake she was a prisoner. Evidently they didn't see soldiers carrying prisoners through the tower very often. Or maybe it was the manner she was being carried; like a bride rather than a sack of potatoes.

As they climbed higher, into the tower the crowds thinned, and the air seemed to grow cold and oppressive. The need to be silent suddenly flaring in the back of her mind where it grew into a fevered paranoia. Even the lightest scuff of the men's' shoes seemed loud and dangerous in the weighty air. She closed her eyes, and turned her face toward the man's shoulder. If he found her action strange or uncomfortable he didn't say or do anything about it. Indeed she sensed a tension in them that hadn't been there before.

The blackness behind her lids grew darker and the men's footsteps levelled out and echoed differently. The girl pulled her face away from the man's shoulder to look around.

They'd abandoned the staircase for a narrow corridor that was poorly illuminated by pathetically ineffective torches that only made the dark more oppressive. The queer green light was gone, which was nice.

As silently as they could, the men passed by several narrow doors, until the corridor formed a T. Turning right the men continued. There were no doors in this corridor, save for the one at the very end.

The air was stiflingly cold, sinking its icy claws into the marrow of their bones. Still the men pressed on, every inch of rigid as though they were approaching the lair of a predator, until they were forced to stop before a wall of despair and cold.

For several moments the three of them loitered, quailing before an invisible wall of terror. Whatever laid waiting for them beyond the door was wholly evil, and she hoped they could remain standing as were indefinitely.

She shivered in the trembling arms of the man holding her. She didn't want to go forward.

The man beside them shook himself, and slowly, tentatively put one foot forward, before carefully passing through that wall. Open mouthed she marvelled at his bravery as he forced himself to approach that door, raise one mailed hand, and knock.

The moment he'd touched the wood he bolted toward them and sprinted past them. He abruptly halted some paces behind them where he stood shivering and gasping for breath.

The man holding the girl turned toward him, concern pulling his dark features into frown, but anything he was going to say was cut off by a cold voice.

"Enter."

All eyes turned toward the door. The invisible cold wall of fear dissipated and the door slowly swung inward.

The man hastily set her down, holding onto her arm to keep her upright as he did not dare to drop her in sight of his master.

With her feet planted on the ground she had no choice, but to use the mocking skull rod. The sooner she was able to walk again the better, if only to no longer look upon that mocking evil face.

The three of them silently made their way toward the door.

Her gaze locked on the dark figure ahead and she couldn't tear her eyes away, not even to look about the room they entered.

The Witch King sat bowed over a chessboard, pawn in his hand, and even with his gaze focused upon the board he emanated terror, and the air was dark about him. He stifled everything. Every shred of happiness she'd had, every bit of warmth she'd felt prior to enter the room were strangled and snuffed out in his presence.

He set the pawn down with an audible click that seemed to echo in the silence.

The Easterlings bowed, but the girl stood rigid unable to move, like a bird in the eyes of a snake. He waved his hand dismissing them.

Without any hesitation they swiftly departed, closing the door behind them with a loud snap, and only then did the Witch King turn his hooded gaze toward her.

A fresh wave of fear turned her blood to ice and her heart laboured painfully against her chest.

* * *

**Author's Note: I really wanted to get into their conversation, but this chapter was getting long. **


	6. Wine and Good Reading

**Author's Note: I am lukewarm. This was not an easy chapter to write, so I'll undoubtedly be editing at some point, but I can't say I hate it. I'm just relieved it's over, and I can move on to other things now. **

**There were a couple POV changes that take place. I may cut them out. I sort of prefer not knowing what's going on in the Witch King's head. So I may cut those parts out… I don't know yet. I may have to write out the next chapter before I make an executive decision. In the meantime I ask that suffer through this drabble, while I clear the clutter out of my head.**

**Disclaimer: It's still fanfiction, it's still non-profit, and I'm still nazgul-less.**

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**Wine and Good Reading**

The silence roiling between the king and girl was tense. She quivered under his gaze, the hand not strangling the rod's head was gripping her arm, in a feeble attempt to shield herself without appearing to shield herself, as the notion of being naked made her hackles rise.

The unseen gaze appraising her from under the hood was like a physical weight pushing down on her, and her trembling legs, even with the rod to aid them couldn't possibly withstand it for long. She was sure he was through her, in her, all of her…

"…_Thy naked and shrivelled mind-"_

She bit her lip, and her head dropped as her shoulders drooped. She was sure he knew everything about her without being able to explain why she knew. A horribly sickening feeling twisted her gut. She wasn't to hurl in front of him was she?

"The strength shall return to thy legs."

His sepulchral voice cut the silence like knife through butter and she instinctively flinched, dropping her gaze to rod. The dead face was thankfully covered by her hand, but she could see it's skeletal grin in her mind.

"Why a corpse-face?"

The question escaped unbidden, and she bit her lip. In her peripheral she saw him make no move to chastise her for blurting out a ridiculous question and changing the subject.

"Corpse-face?"

She nodded looking back at his empty hood, feeling slightly relieved that he didn't sound angry. He didn't sound much of anything apart from eerily sepulchral, which was what she'd come to learn to be his equivalent to a monotone. "Why did you choose a dead face as your emblem?" To make a mockery of the living and terrorize the flesh off anyone who looked at it, why else?

He almost seemed to stiffen, and his head did turn to the side fractionally. His mail fingers ticked once, twice, thrice against his chessboard before he answered.

"It is to serve as a reminder." There was an edge in his voice….

"A reminder of what?" She clamped her teeth down on her tongue too late. The air seemed to grow heavy as he regarded her from where he sat.

"It is to remind Gondor that I can take far more than her cities. That the loss of a city is only the beginning…." He trailed off, focusing his gaze on the chess table before him. Deftly he lifted a piece and set it down, with a faint click, effectively removing a pawn of the opposite colour from the board.

Her fingers twined together as she anxiously watched him. He was upset, that was certain, but why hadn't he- why even ask herself that question? Why couldn't she just be thankful he hadn't risen and struck her or done something worse?

"Why am I here?"

His hand, reaching for another piece paused. The king's hooded gaze met hers. "Dost thee not remember our last chat in the Houses?"

"I do, but," she bit her lip, "there must be more to it than that."

"Why so?"

A frown replaced her nervous lip biting. What sort of question was that? Did he honestly think she'd let him spoon feed her whatever he wanted her to believe?

"Because, we were conversing in the Houses already. And I can't imagine that you're the type of person who would spare a prisoner only to indulge in idle banter."

. "Thou art but a child, incapable of imagining anything beyond thy own narrow expediencies and the lies fed to thee by thine ill-educated tutors, and thou presumes to imagine she knows all of a man who has seen ages come and go, generations of men live and die?"

"No. No! No!" She staggered back waving a hand to pacify him and to ward off the sudden cold that held her heart in a vice. "That's-that's not what I meant! I know that's how it sounded!" She pressed her hands against her temples shaking her head vigorously. Her legs buckled sending her to the floor. The rod clattered and rolled beyond her reach, and she sat panting, clutching her chest as it grew painfully tight. Her eyes closed and she whimpered in the dark.

Was it him setting magic upon her? Was her finally breaking when she'd been allowed a breath of freedom?

She could feel his eyes, like she'd been able to feel them in the Houses, the moment she'd stepped into the room- that unseen, uncaring, accursed gaze boring into her. Her hands rose to her face.

In expression and demeanour, the Witch King appeared to be the epitome of emotionless. Like the cloak it was little more than a mask; a lie to hide to what lay below the surface. The girl was amazing. Without even trying she had rubbed salt into that wound once more- first in the Houses and here she had again stirred up the old memories.

He knelt lifting the cane he'd given her from the ground. His jaw infinitesimally stiffened as he looked down at the grinning skull resting atop the crescent moon. He would destroy Gondor, and he's extract his revenge, then maybe… maybe he dared to hope- maybe he'd find peace. He looked past the rod to look at the dark silhouette. That was all he could see of her, a shadow, and it was enough to know how close she was to breaking.

She was teetering and a nudge would send her falling either way. It was too soon for that. Much too soon.

"Please-please stop it…."

"Would I could, but thou hast brought this terror upon thyself."

Her fear of him had exploded and sent her reeling, before he'd even had a chance to do so much glare. While his words were true, it was becoming clear-if the renewed raggedness of her breathing was any indication- they had made her current condition worse. That wasn't good. Already close to death's door panic of this kind jeopardized her health, and that jeopardized his plan.

Silently he stood, and crossed his office. A tankard of wine stood on a table next to a bookcase. While he could not drink, a handful of the few servants and guests he permitted into his office could, and so he'd seen to having refreshments at hand. It made him look hospitable, which was always agreeable, and it kept mouths open and information free. He poured some into a goblet, uttering a quick phrase in a language long forgotten by many, save himself and a few others. He grabbed a nearby chair, and approached the kneeled girl.

Setting the chair aside he grabbed the girl's arm and lifted her with about same difficulty as lifting a pillow.

Her eyes shot open as the Witch King grabbed her. In her chest, her heart sprinted, and she wilted in his grasp. Her heart was going to kill her, of that she was almost certain, unless the Witch King was going to do it.

He was placed in a chair, and he pressed a hand against her forehead. Dimly she could hear his voice, a faint whisper that faded in and out of the blood pounding in her ears. She was dead-this was-this was...this was….

Her heart slowed and the air to long denied to her lungs became easier to suck in, and she did so; quaffing it as if there simply was not enough in the world to satisfy. Even her desperately deep breaths were slowing. Everything was slowing. Her mind was clearing and she could feel the heat of metal in her hands, the aroma of fermented grapes teasing her nose, and she looked down mildly surprised to see a goblet of steaming wine clenched between her hands.

The nazgul had given it to her and she couldn't recall when. His muttering had ceased, but his hand remained her forehead for a time. Then finally he pulled away and silently returned to his chair.

She took a sip of the wine he'd offered her relishing the warmth that tickled her stomach.

Another bought of silence blanketed the room, broken only by the faint click of the occasional move of a chess piece. Nursing her drink, she watched him for a time.

His moves were, slow, but they were nothing short of methodical, and calculated. Undoubtedly, he was a master. She suddenly hoped he didn't catch her watching and misinterpret it as interest in playing him. She could play, if the definition of 'could' was limited to knowledge of the rules and unbroken loss record.

"Dost thou play?"

She winced and took a sip of wine. Chess was a game of tact, discipline, and analysis-everything she lacked. "I know how to play…." She trailed off; hoping the uncertainty lacing her voice explained the rest.

"Do you always play by yourself?"

She hoped chess was a safer topic than her earlier prying. His anger made about as much sense as everything else going on, which was none. She was here for more than conversation, that had to be true, but her questions- which could have been worded better, she admitted- seemed too small to have unleashed that amount of rage.

"No. The Lieutenant of Dol Guldor when he is here may indulge me thusly-"

His head rose, gaze fixed on the door, and the girl turned to look, only to shudder and fall back into her chair. Something bad was out there. What could be worse than what was already in the room with her?

Her breath hitched, hairs on her arms and neck stood on end, and her skin crawled with goose bumps. Her eyes met the king's hooded gaze-she wondered if he was actually looking at her or the menace behind her. Staring at him, she felt the suddenly powerful and overwhelming compulsion to drink. Her hand under the control of something other than her will raised the goblet to her lips, and she swallowed a mouthful of invigorating heat as the hollow cadence of boots stopped beside her.

"So, this is the prisoner you've spoken of?" She shivered as a voice; soft and deadly trickled across her senses. Her scalp tingled, and the little hairs on her neck couldn't stand high enough. Carefully she took a sip, before turning to look at him.

All she would see was a black cloak, maybe some armour, but still she curious as to what sort face a voice like that belonged to. Disappointment and terror were hers. Her eyes were met once more with the shadowed emptiness of a hood. He made a sound- that she couldn't identify, before turning toward his lord. He bowed as the men had earlier. And his soft voice turned harsh, with the guttural words he uttered.

Her mind reeled and her heart jumped. She didn't understand him. She didn't want, or need to understand him, to know he was speaking the language of Mordor. It was harsh and it grated against her ears in the manner that was painful. She wanted to run. She'd crawl if she had to, if it meant getting away from him, his language, and the darkness that made the room seem black.

She was back in the Houses again!

The drink was in her hands though! It had made her warm before! She forced her shaking hands to lift the goblet, her lips to stop trembling long enough to force a few drops into her mouth. Her heart froze. The heat had been stolen from it, leaving it cold like the room, in the wake of the nazgul's speech.

"Khamul sends his regards. He asked that when I arrived I was to inform you that he's been delayed. Something-he didn't say what- arose and it was of the utmost importance."

"That Lord Fuinur is thy reason for terrorizing my slave?"

Both nazgul glanced at the girl quaking in her chair. Her eyes were glazed unseeingly onher cup.

"Ah! So she's that sort of prisoner." Fuinur smirked. "I should have guessed, though I never would have suspected thee take kindly to girl shooting at thy head with flaming arrows. But then thou hast always were fixated on that prophecy-"

"Whether it was her hand the prophecy alluded to or that of another is neither here nor there, nor is this the place to discuss it. If thou has naught else to report, I bid thee leave."

"Yes Sire."

Fuinur dropped into a low bow and swiftly made for the door.

"Lord Fuinur." Westron filled the room, and the girl visibly relaxed. Across from him Fuinur smirked, fully aware of the girl's changing emotions and demeanour. Less amused the Witch King continued. "Send for thy cousin. I have a task I wish to appoint him to."

With a wordless nod of the head the nazgul turned to leave, only to pause at the door. His hooded gaze turned toward her.

"What's thy name girl?"

She shivered. "My-my n-name is…." A wave of fear washed over her. Her name was…something. She'd had one at one point. The little girl in her dream earlier had said it more than once. She tried to remember.

_"- jump with me!" _

She tried to focus on the movements of the girl's lips. Een. She could make out een, or was it ee?

No. It was definitely an 'een.'

She thought back. She needed to remember something before the Houses, before the Wtich King, before she'd been taken. Ithilian.

She'd spent a lot of time with a couple of close friends in Ithilian.

"Well…?" She shuddered as the nazgul's soft voice cut through her thoughts.

"My name is…."

_"-whatch out!" She'd felt rather than seen the orc coming_. Imrahil-of course she'd remember her friend's name when she couldn't remember her own- he'd shoved her aside to kill the oncoming orc. She'd hit a wall and her head had hit a jutting piece of rock. Dazed she'd had enough sense to raise her bow, knock an arrow and shoot, giving Imrahil an opening.

_"Are you okay-? –nine are you okay?" _She hadn't been looking at him, but past him as another orc came charging toward them. Closing her eyes she tried to blot out the nazgul standing over her, the feeling of the Witch King's gaze boring into her head, the orc running up the hill, and instead bent all her focus on his lips. Maybe she could read them.

_"-een."_

_ "Br-"_

Another memory came unbidden. _"It'sHimBrenine! It's Him-"A dark figure shrouded in black blotted out the pale light of the waning sun. _

"My name is Brenine."

"Pathetic." The word escaped like a viper's hiss, leaving her trembling and cold in its wake. She felt nothing short of relieved when he had slid through the door to return to whatever abyssal hell he'd crawled from.

But with him gone, the Witch King's focus was once again fixed on her, and she found herself unable to look at him. Did he think she was pathetic too? Probably. Why wouldn't they? They served a master who viewed the entire world as a pathetic waste, why would they not do the same?

It didn't mean it didn't hurt though. She just hoped the Witch King wasn't intuitive enough to tell she was upset. That last thing she needed to give him was another way to torture her.

Self-conscious she looked about the room. Maybe she could find something to converse with him about, or would that be pathetic. It's what he said she was here to do….

She looked about, tenderly sipping her wine. She'd have to stop drinking it soon. Not even halfway through she could feel the burn of alcohol in her stomach, it was an unpleasant tingle that didn't sit well with her. Many times she'd tried to drink while trying to ignore it, and always the strangeness of the sensation forced her to stop.

Her eyes fell upon a bookcase, every shelf proudly displaying a neat row of books. She loved books! But if that was all Minas Morgul had to offer then she'd be done in a week, assuming the Witch King let her touch them, and they weren't cursed or poisonous to handle.

Her heart thudded, and she squinted, reading the title. That couldn't- there was no way she was looking at what she thought she was. That was impossible. Only the elves would have something like that, and even that was highly unlikely. The Numenoreans had barely managed to get a tree seedling across the water, never mind that book! She glanced at the others, head spinning. Fabled and impressive titles all of them, but her eyes quickly returned to the one.

"Thou hast a taste for literature."

"Is that-is that" She pointed at the shelf. "Is that a copy of the Lay of Liethian?"

"It's not a copy." His words were a whisper, reverent almost, and her eyes grew wide as the reality of what he suggesting sunk in.

"That's-that's" her cracked. "That's the original?" She pointed unnecessarily. "That's impossible! How did you get it?"

"Ere Numenor plunged into the sea I bore away the books my parents bestowed upon me over the years, and many more besides. That book and those beside it have seen much of the world and only by greatest fortune has been spared a water and fire and utter loss."

He paused a moment, the metal of his mail clad fingers ticking against the chessboard as he thought.

"Once I could boast the greatest of libraries. Now, Minas Morgul's library, tis but a pale shadow of what once was."

She wasn't sure if the Witch King was lying or not. It was possible he was being honest, but the fact that he possessed the last only completed rendition of that poem was unbelievable. And she was looking at it.

"Yes, but you have that book."

"One book does not make a library."

He was right about that last part, but still he had it in his possession. When she escaped she was going to tell everyone about this. The world needed to know, and it would be wonderful to walk down the streets of Minas Tirith, with he Lay of Liethian tucked under her elbow. It almost made her giddy.

Swiftly she schooled herself, lest he catch wind of her thoughts, if he had the power to do so, which unbeknownst to her was a decision made too late. He saw all he needed to see, and he was not pleased, but he'd let the fool think as she wished. If she asked to read it, he might indulge her.

He was going to destroy her anyways, so why not raise her hopes that much higher? As long she served her purpose it mattered little what she thought or did. Still he would keep an eye on her, perhaps two eyes now that one of his most prized possessions had become her chief fancy.

The king watched as she idly took a sip of her wine. Innocent and blissfully unaware of his knowledge, she sat squinting and gushing over the other titles. Many were history books, detailing past battles, campaigns, and the stratagem used by generals on both sides of various conflicts. Undoubtedly she'd find those less appealing.

He sensed Fuinur and Herumor outside, and wordlessly bid them entry. The girl shuddered as the passed over the threshold, Fuinur looking miffed, and Herumor a mix of pleased and curious as he appraised the Witch King's prisoner.

The cousins bowed. Fuinur quickly departed sparing none in the room a passing glance. Herumor straightened, is earlier expression replaced by a stern resignation as he waited for his Lord's instructions.


	7. Guestroom

**Author's Note: Due to a catastrophic quarter inch of sleet that rained down on my beloved city, my fellow Floridians in their profound unheard of courage closed all the businesses and schools. (Really Floridian courage is unheard of….) Out of boredom I have decided to write another chapter. **

**Disclaimer: Given the choice between claiming a nazgul or a Ra'zac I'd much rather the Ra'zac. Galbatorix would kill me for stealing away Glint and Guile, which would be inconvenient I agree. But I'd rather that than Sauron's wrath. **

****Actually, if Sauron and his nine epic minions were to jump into the Inheritance Cycle I'd be very interest to see what would happen. Let's see Eragon try to overcome a Morgul Blade! :D**

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**Guestroom**

"Normally His Majesty, would not have treated with thee so soon after being brought up from the Houses. Unfortunately the preparations for thy room fell behind schedule, and once he got word of thy condition he wished to see thee immediately," Herumor explained. Brenine had understood nothing the Witch King had said to the nazgul walking beside her, because they'd been using a language she didn't recognize. It hadn't been terrifying like the language Fuinur had used, but on the tongues of the nazgul no language sounded good. In any case it seemed part of the Witch King's task for Herumor involved taking her to her room, which Herumor seemed almost thrilled about.

She had no idea why that could possibly be and was too scared to ask so she asked a safer question instead.

"What would have happened if the room had been ready?" Brenine couldn't imagine what sort of room she was going to be staying in. Mildew, cobwebs, and black- a lot of black came to mind. She could readily imagine the dark abode where she'd be spending the duration of her time Minas Morgul when not suffering the presence of the king or the other nazgul.

Herumor's hooded gaze turned toward her briefly. "Thou wouldst have been taken there and waited until the king summoned thee. However, between the lack of preparations and thy unconscious state during the journey here, tis but a mute point either way. If thou weren't so weak the room still would not have been prepared, and he would not have allowed a guest to loiter unattended. If the room had been prepared the King would still have seen thee on account of thy stupor. It worked out in the end I feel, though the King certainly did not desire you meet any other nazgul save myself so soon."

She frowned, and for a while, only the hollow thud of his boots, the scuff of her sandals, and the clicking of her rod could be heard bouncing along the walls of another dark poorly lit corridor.

"Why do you say I'm a guest? I clearly wasn't before." She waved a hand in front of her in the direction of where she thought the Houses to be. "What has changed?"

Herumor uttered a soft chuckle. "Thou still art a prisoner in a sense, but thou art a guest as well. It has been many long years since we had a person of importance spending more than a few days in our beautiful city, and even longer still since the king dredged up a prisoner from the Houses."

Brenine froze, and Herumor paused as well. She felt small looking up at his empty hood. It made her heart quail, but she forced her scowl to remain in place.

"What are you talking about? I'm not important." She shook her head, as a humourless smile graced her lips. He was feeding her lies and despite knowing that she was getting caught up in them. At least the 'important' statement had been enough to jar her senses into life.

"I haven't done anything to merit such-such, uh" she twirled a finger in the air, "praise. And I'm the offspring of a merchant's daughter and a minor nobleman. Really, I'm not important. And I certainly wasn't important for the majority of my time in the Houses. So what's changed?"

Herumor looked to the side a moment. "Thou is important because the Kind has deemed thee so-"

"Why? What does he want? What is it he thinks I can give him? I don't have anything of value…."

She bit her lip. She really needed to keep a hold on her tongue. The king hadn't liked her interruption and she couldn't imagine any of the others did either, but Herumor made no move to indicate annoyance.

"The king's decisions are his to make, and his explanations for them are his to give when he feels so inclined. If thou wish to know then it is he, thou must ask-"

"I already did!"

"Then it is not my place to say."

She started walking again, the rod's clicking an angry tempo, but she was soon tired, and he kept pace with her too easily.

"What can you say? Can you tell me anything? Why I'm here, what he wants. What I shouldn't say so I don't anger him again…." She trailed off into a fuming silence. Of the nazgul she'd met Herumor was the most agreeable, which didn't mean a whole given who and what he was. His presence was still chilling, his black cloak, and the shadows that seemed to cling to him were unpleasant to behold for more than few seconds, but his voice dripping with ice and venom as it was, spoke with an air of good humour and politeness that she found both unnerving and relaxing.

"I know not his Majesty's plans, and what I do know I'm not permitted to reveal. But…" He trailed off, and she caught him turn his head toward her, as their footsteps and the clicking rod echoed along the walls.

"What?"

"Tis best not to say, for what I would say is little more than an assumption on my part. That will be little help to thee. As for avoiding the king's rage there is much thou couldst do, but the general rules of thumb are these: don't interrupt him as thou hast done to me, defer to him, do all he asks, and keepthy conversation topics light. If thou wishes better council, tell me what you did to incur his rage."

She frowned, slowing slightly. His pace slowed almost as quickly as if he'd expected it. "In his office I ask about the grinning skull, and he said it was a reminder, but when I asked him what it was a reminder of he grew angry. A few days ago I mentioned King Earnür and he grew angry, though I had suspected he might."

The nazgul's head bowed as he walked, and the shadows about him darkened. Shivering with sudden cold, she wearily eased closer to the wall putting more space between them. The silence about them became stifling, and the click of her rod and the sound of their feet seemed far too noisome. She could almost believe they were the only two souls in the entire world, for the entire world outside seemed little more than a distant memory, and thousands of miles away.

"I can offer thee little guidance in this matter. For surely those are things the King will wish reveal in his own time, but… I fear I may say too much; I believe that all thy questions are intertwined."

The nazgul immediately dropped his head again, so that his eyes were on the stone floor.

From that point on they walked in silence, broken only by their shoes, her rod, and his occasional word of direction as they came to various intersections and took various turns.

The gloom that had gathered about Herumor did not dissipate, and Brenine did not dare ask him any more questions.

"This is it." He stoped before a single dark wood door, that looked no different from any others. He opened it, pushing it inwards and stepping away so that she could hobble over the threshold undeterred.

The room lacked nothing to be desired. It was small and rectangular. The head board of a bed surrounded by dark teal drapes hugged one wall, and across from it was a shelf and a wardrobe to stash all her nonexistent belongings. At the room's far end was a window with black curtains that she couldn't wait to close so that she wouldn't have to see the that ghastly pale magic light seeping in from the stonework outside, and in the centre of the room was a small wood table topped with a basket of food and a tankard, with a chair set beside it.

"The room is not as well furnished as his Highness would have liked, but current circumstances have prevented more from being done for the next few days. After that there should be little else that this room will need."

She stepped inside, her eyes fixated on the food. Her stomach rumbled, and Herumor chuckled behind her.

"I shall take my leave now, so that thee can rest."

"Uh," she turned toward him, "is there a way I could call someone if I did need something?"

Herumor's voice was mirthful. "What is it that thou thinks she needs?"

"Well…" Brenine was a 'she' so there were some ladies issues she'd need to see to at some point, but there was little that came to mind, and that particular issue would hopefully leave her be for a while. "There is one thing…" She frowned at the floor, hardly noticing the teal and gold swirling pattern on the rug beneath her feet. "I was a ranger when I was captured, and I had a cloak when I was brought to the city. I would very much like to have it returned if that is possible."

"What is it thee needs of such a cloak?"

She bit her lip. There was mockery in his tone. "I'm a Gondorian and since I'm not likely to see Gondor any time soon I would like it as a keepsake."

"If it is even possible that thy cloak can be returned, it would be unwise for thee to wear it beyond the confines thine own room. In regards to an earlier question," the Ringwraith leaned toward her lowering his voice, "there are none here who view Gondor favourably, his Highness least of all."

Dry mouthed and chilled, Brenine nodded. After a short pause Herumor pulled away, bid her farewell, and closed the door leaving her to her own devices.

The rug was spongy beneath her feet as Brenine made a beeline for the food.


	8. Tempting Fate

**Author's Note: When I first started writing this story the following library scene was going to actually happen in this chapter, so there's your spoiler. My apologies for the cliff hanger, but it's late and I felt that it was a good place to stop. **

**To those you are in need of another Witch King fix, he will making an appearance soon. I can't promise when exactly, but soon. It would have been next chapter, but I felt it best to break this chapter in half. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own. But man oh man I wish I did. I love LOTR!**

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**Tempting Fate**

Time meant little for the first few days Brenine spent confined to the room she was borrowing. Her routine consisted of nothing beyond eating, sleeping, eating, sleeping, relieving her bowels, sleeping, eating, and sleeping some more.

It was what she assumed to be her fourth day of confinement, that she felt well and restless. So she explored her room. She looked at theshelves, empty like open mouths waiting to fed, and quickly she ignored them for she had nothing to put on them. The wardrobe was likewise barren, and there wasn't much else to look at. She had, at one point unfurled the bed's curtains to block off the sight of the sickly corpse-light since she'd deemed the widow's drapes too far away to hobble to at the time.

But now she admired them. She'd been expecting blacks, greys, and reds spread across heavy itchy fabrics, and instead she found herself staring at teal velvet, soft and cool to the touch, inlaid with gold embroidery. The sheets she slept on had been silks and linens, and she was forced to admit the king or whoever had overseen the room's preparations had good taste, or they had a ton of money in their coffers and going out of their way to provide a prisoner with silk was seen as no major expense.

She hadn't expected her room to be this good, and certainly not colourful. She wondered if the rest of the rooms, in Minus Morgul were likewise adorned, with teals and golds, or if every room was different? She tried to imagine black walled rooms with blues, reds, greens, a secret patchwork quilt that none save the Witch King and his interior designers were aware of. What would the nazguls' rooms look like?

Their rooms would be torture chambers, and they'd be painted with splotches of red and black ichors, from the men and orcs they'd used to paint with. She quickly shoved the images from her head. Her mind was probably right, but she didn't need the imagery. She'd see actual blood soon enough and it would probably be hers.

How many people had died in this tower? How many ghosts and tortured Fea wandered the halls? How many other 'guests' had used this room before the Witch King wearied of them? Recovering her strength and escaping were the only things she should have been concerned with. Potential paint jobs were irrelevant and unimportant, because someday the Gondorians would reclaim this city, and the nazguls' stains would be washed away. First she had to get out, so she wasn't mistaken for an enemy slave or worse.

Maybe if she was lucky, in the amount of time it took to regain her legs, she could uncover some of the citadel's or even the nazgul's secrets. That would be the information she'd need to prove to whatever Gondorian rangers she came across that she was indeed a prisoner.

No. That might not work. What if they thought she knew too much? Would that make them distrust her more, even when her words were nothing but truth? Would her information be her death? And then the nazgul were another issue all together.

What if the stories were true? What if they could read minds and sense emotions? Even if they couldn't, they undoubtedly had other ways of discovering a person's true intent… and if they thought for a moment she was plotting to make a break for it and give information to Gondor-that's assuming she got information that Gondor could use-what then? She knew what would happen then. She'd go back to the Houses or somewhere worse… if there was a place worse.

Shuddering with cold she froze, the sound of her rod clicking against the stone dying into an echo. Panting she rested her forehead against the window. She hadn't noticed she'd crossed the room, nor did she really care.

Brenine closed her eyes against the glass, willing her thudding heart to slow, and her chest to loosen. She dropped the cane with a clatter bracing herself on the windowsill. Her trembling hands blurred in and out of focus.

There was nothing she could do and she was at the mercy of the merciless. She was going to die here.

If death was to be her end, why not, why not do so trying to escape, trying give information to Gondor? Her quailing spirit made no response for it was pointless to try. There was no hope of escape in this city she knew nothing of, surrounded by enemies far more powerful than she.

What would a true Gondorian do? Her hear was persistent and so was her fear.

Shaking with cold and despair she cried. Why couldn't she have been cut down by orcs like her friend? Why couldn't she have escaped like her comrades?

Through the darkness of her lids, and the blurriness that replaced the black, her mind was focused on something outside the window. There was something drawing her gaze, pulling her head up, and her heart and spirit paused their quarrelling to wonder at it.

She lifted her head and looked to the right. Her eyes met the stony gaze of a gargoyle and for a brief moment she had creeping feeling its fell gaze was sentient. Her legs gave as horrible cold swept over her. Gasping, she reached up with shaking hands and jerked the curtains closed, before scrabbling back.

Her back bumped against her bed and she grabbed her rod brandishing it like a blade. Uttering small frightened sobs as she roughly wiped at her eyes with shaking hands as she sat trembling, waiting for the cold to pass or the menace to burst in through the window.

A shriek escaped her as heavy knocking shook the door. "Oh Eru…." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the bed.

"Brenine."

Herumor's voice. Feeling a flicker of relief that she didn't want to contemplate, Brenine shakily got to her feet. Taking deep breaths, trying to erase her fear, she made her way toward the door.

"Ye-yes?" She opened the door, feeling a thrill of fear as her eyes looked up at the empty shadow of his hood.

"Thou screamed."

"You startled me," she said in a low voice, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. How on earth was she going to tell him a stupid statue scared her? That would sound utterly pathetic. She frowned as Fuinur came to mind…. That one word... Odds were he thought everyone but himself and his superiors to be pathetic, so it really shouldn't bother her. But it did. And the fact he had such a notion and could poison the others to it would hasten her demise. If she earned their respect could that save her? For a while maybe, of course if they respected her they might decide she should join them, and that was worse. She had heard the stories of their magic and cursed knives. No; if it was a choice between being thought pathetic and dying or being respected and turning into one of them, she chose death.

Of course she could be jumping to conclusions…?

"I wasn't expecting someone to knock-so loudly." She hadn't been expecting anyone to knock at all, but he really had knocked much harder than necessary.

"Something has upset thee."

Brenine almost snorted. How nice of him to pretend to care! "Why wouldn't I be? I'm in a strange place, far away from home, my friends, family, and I'm the designated conversation buddy of the very man who intends to destroy them all. No, _Lord_ Herumor I'm perfectly happy and content!" She fell against the door frame as she felt her eyes prickle. Great, great she was going to cry in front him. Well, if pathetic was her salvation she was hitting the mark.

"Ugh," she sighed, before finding the strength to stand. "I'm sorry. You needed something right?" She couldn't believe she'd apologized, for what- her exhaustion? Too tired to chastise herself for letting slip such a ludicrous reflexive response she waited for his answer.

The nazgul, however, remained silent. Perhaps he was confused by her swinging emotions, or maybe he thought her crazy. If he thought she was crazy now, she couldn't wait to see what he thought of her when she was riding the red dragon- that brilliant time of month when her mood shifted with more whim than the weather. She almost laughed. Maybe she was crazy.

She'd been saved from horror in the Houses only to go insane a few days later! That explained her vision of the statue outside. Statues couldn't see! They certainly weren't sentient and- that was it! She'd lost her mind. The stress had gotten to her, and she'd broke!

"This was recovered at thy request." He presented her a folded bundle of fabric with mottled, browns, greys, and greens.

Wide eyed she gingerly took it from him, as if it was made glass, and unfurled it, feeling her eyes sting again. Her cloak! Stained by mud and blood, torn, and frayed; maybe if she held it to her nose it would still smell of Ithilien; of trees and woods. She didn't dare raise it to her face in front of the Ringwraith.

"Thank you," she breathed.

"Tis not me thee should thank." The nazgul shifted, tugging at the edge of his hood.

"Then to whom do I owe my gratitude?"

Herumor looked back at her. "Gothmog, the Lieutenant of Minas Morgul."

"I'm afraid I don't know him. Could you tell him for me?"

Herumor shook his head. "Thou shalt meet him soon enough, and have the pleasure of thanking him personally." The nazgul turned, peering into the gloom behind him. She froze, afraid of or for what had caught his attention.

His head tilted toward her slightly. "I must take my leave." He purposely strode into the darkness of the hall, the sickly torches sputtering and demonic shadows dancing in his wake.

She stood on the threshold, watching with a mix of horror and fascination as he became one the darkness at the far end of the hall, disappearing entirely from view. Shivering she wrapped her cloak about her shoulders, and pressed her nose to her shoulder inhaling deeply.

Relishing the scent of earth, the aroma of Gondor; she hobbled to the bed, and collapsing onto the quilt, pulled the cloak to her chest.

It was the first time she could say she peacefully slept in the darkness of Minas Morgul.

The days passed, each growing slower than the last, as her strength returned. She still required her walking stick, but as the Witch King had predicted her legs were holding her steadier. She could stand still longer, and walk a few steps farther, but with her renewing strength came a sense of boredom.

Her meals had also gotten lager. Instead a bread roll and a fruit or a vegetable, she was now being given a bread roll, a fruit, and a vegetable. Her tankard of water was always replaced when the orc brought her meals.

He was like every other orc, she'd ever seen, grey skinned, point eared, sharp fanged, red eyed, and like all other Morgul orcs small compared to their brethren from other places in Mordor.

Herumor had been there to oversee their first introductions, and probably to make sure the two of them weren't going to kill each other, because a fight between a girl with a cane and an orc with a pear was bound to get ugly.

The orc's name was Grashnic, and he was either very quiet as a rule or simply had no interest in talking to her, because he had not uttered a word in her presence, though he looked at her quite a bit. She tried to indulge him in conversation, asking what books he'd read, since Herumor had explained he was literate, but her efforts got her silence. That hardly boded well. If she couldn't indulge an orc in conversation she really didn't have a lot of chance with Witch King.

Unable to use the orc to assuage her growing need for activity, her mind turned to the only intriguing thing in the room. The door.

More than once, since the first day arrived she wondered about the door. Was it locked? Was it enchanted, would someone know if she left her room, would she be thrown in again the moment she stepped outside, and how could she get from the door to the library and back safely, given that she had no idea where the library even was? Was she even allowed out?

No one had told her she had to stay, no one had told she couldn't explore, but maybe that was because no sane person willingly wandered about the Witch King's citadel- never mind wandering around with no idea where they were going in the first place. Maybe the king hadn't assumed she treasured books enough to contemplate doing just that.

The nazgul were above her, not directly above her, well maybe one or two of were, but she could sense the cold, and could feel herself grow uneasy contemplating the idea of going upstairs rather than down.

Actually Herumor had said something about that the day he introduced her to Grashnic…. Her room had been chosen in part because it was low enough to keep her sleep undisturbed by the presence of the Ringwraiths above, and yet close enough that they could reach her with ease. She still didn't know what she thought about the nazgul concerning themselves with her beauty rest. That was just too weird to even begin contemplating. She supposed it was simply the Witch King leaving nothing to chance. Herumor had said he'd been concerned by her health when he'd brought her to her room.

The thought of the nazgul's captain worrying over her well being was just as disturbing, and she shook her head.

Brenine needed a book, or she really would go insane contemplating mother-hen-ringwraiths. That right there proved she was nuts.

With a wry smile she stood, rod clacking as it hit the stone. Then slowly she moved to the door. What if she couldn't open it? What if the nazgul knew she was about to open it, and one of them was waiting for her to open the door? That alone was enough to make her stop in her tracks. The last thing she need was an enraged ringwraith. But she just wanted to go to the library and get a book to read. That wasn't a crime. If she was a 'guest' shouldn't she be allowed to entertain herself?

Maybe she should ask Herumor?

She could go upstairs and knock on the doors, and after more than likely irritating every other nazgul she might find him, assuming he was even in the city. Maybe he'd left in a hurry after he'd returned her cloak because he was being sent out? She could go ask the king himself, because being the head of state meant he had all the time in the world to give directions to a prisoner.

Maybe she should just open the door, take a couple steps and see what happened?

That idea didn't sound half bad, and if someone did come to berate her, she' at least have someone to explain her predicament to.

Slowly, she made her way to the door, every fibre in her body tense with nervous anticipation. With her luck there'd be someone outside the door. Her shaking hand hovered over the doorknob, before she carefully set her hand upon it.

She waited for a screech or a far off door to slam. Releasing a pent up breath she tightened her trembling grip, and stood rigid.

Very quietly, very slowly she tuned the knob, but held the door closed. At this point all she'd have to do was release the knob and she could return to her bed and sleep, or stare at the ceiling and daydream, without having to face whatever horror awaited her on the other side.

Breath coming in ragged gasps she pulled the door open and looked out into the dark. No one leapt at her, no one shouted at her, no one shrieked on high. There was no one to meet her, save the sickly torches, and the evil shadows.

Carefully, she eased a foot over the threshold, breath held as she listened for any noise at all, and even slower, quaking harder, her other foot followed.

She stood facing the darkness. Behind her the safety of her room beckoned, and before her lay the blackness filled with moving shadows.

Still and silent, she stood a long time; her desire for a book warring with her desire to return to her room. Unbeknownst to her the torch light caught the silver of the rod between her fingers, and the Morgul skull burst into silent laughter.

The door closed with a snap as she hobbled to the bed and sank onto the mattress. She'd stood at least twenty minutes, staring into the dark. At the moment she was satiated, content in her day's venture into the world beyond her door, and after standing there long enough for her eyes to play tricks on her- to start seeing monsters in the dark; ghastly tendrils of blackness and shadow reaching for her, as the torch flames seemed to grow dimmer and smaller- she knew she would go no further. Nor did she plan to in the immediate future.

When her legs were stronger and she had the regained ability to walk unaided, maybe, then she would consider braving the blackness.


	9. The Summons

**Author's Note: To those of you who got an alert message. I uploaded a chapter this morning, but upon reflection I realised there some things hat needed to be altered in order for this story to flow smoothly. My apologies. **

**Here is take two. I am not in a good mood, so it might be good if someone were to tell Brenine to leap out a window before I start writing about her. **

**Disclaimer: I claim ownership over my cockatrices and serial killers, all of whom have gone missing on account of a lost flash drive. The nazgul are not on that list, nor are they related my flash drive in any way. Thank you.**

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**The Summons**

The days came and went, travelling at a snail's pace through molasses. Herumor had disappeared and the Witch King had not sent for her since her first day. When she mentioned this to Grashnic; the only person she saw on a daily basis, he snarled at her, and promptly bolted for the door. That was the first sound she'd heard him make in response to anything she said, and seemingly the last.

He was far more hesitant as he brought food and replaced her water jug than he'd been before. She caught him shooting her side long glances when he thought she wasn't looking. From that point on she didn't dare mention the nazgul to him and gradually he seemed to relax.

Unfortunately it was on a morning when they both were in her room together, that the Witch King's summons came in the form of Fuinur.

Grashnic grew tense and agitated, nearly knocking over the water tankard as he hastily set down her new food and removed her dirtied dishes from her dinner the previous night. She asked him what was wrong, and he hissed with frightened red eyes, "Screamer."

She couldn't remember a time she'd ever seen an orc afraid. She'd come to believe they had no sense of fear at all, but that notion was obviously wrong and now wasn't a good time to dwell on it because 'screamer' could only mean one thing.

Brenine jumped and Grashnic just about dropped the tray, and the dishes upon it, as a heavy knock rattled the flimsy wooden barrier. Hastily jumping up, Brenine clicked and hobbled her way to the door. "Herumor I-"

"The King has requested thee." Fuinur's soft voice slithered through the opening, and Brenine froze in place. He sniffed then, and his gaze turned toward the room's other occupant. Grashnic bowed.

The nazgul, then addressed the orc in that horrid Black speech, and Brenine cowered, bracing herself on the rod as she pressed one ear to her should and a hand to the other in a vain attempt to blot out the horrible guttural sounds emanating between the wraith and orc.

Grashnic bowed once more and happily bolted from the room, wishing to save his hide from the Screamer's impatience, and his eyes from witnessing the flesh being ripped off a Tark-slattern.

In his depraved mind that was the only reason the Screamers would keep her, because there was little else a Tark-girl could be good for- and being on the other side themselves it was possible the Screamers didn't mind their rides bony and dead looking- assuming they could even do that in the manner living men could. Then considering a few them were Tarks themselves… though he'd never dare use that phrase within their hearing- it made sense, and he was all too happy leaving the Tark-lord and girl to their own devices.

With the orc gone Brenine was left to endure Fuinur's undivided attention.

"Tis a delight to see thee still garbed in men's britches." She shuddered, but refused to step back. It wasn't her problem that she'd been provided nothing else to wear. At least she'd had the decency to request a tub to clean what she was wearing.

When she made no move to respond, Fuinur turned away with an impatient 'come,' tossed over his shoulder.

Terrified of angering the impatient nazgul that hated her-because the others she'd met so far were oh so nice- she wordlessly hastened to keep up. Keeping pace with him scared her for she wanted to be as far from him as she could possibly be, and yet falling behind was even more so. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what he'd do if he was forced to stop and wait for her.

Periodically she heard him sniffling or sniffing- she really didn't know what he was doing, and despite the twinge of curiosity she dared not ask.

The shifting shadows between the ill torches seemed to grow black and solid as Fuinur passed them. They had clung to him as if trying to pull him into the dark or they were trying to become one with him. Either way she had found herself unable to look at him directly, and unable to conjure the fortitude needed to attempt keeping an exact pace with him, so she had settled for a few feet of space, and even that had seemed too close.

The halls they walked through were not the same ones she'd been carried down the first day the King had summoned her, but they were just as cheerless and dark. That same sickly green light seemed to emanate from them, and just like the last time they illuminated nothing.

Eventually they came to an intersection, one branch lead to a landing between stairs, one flight going up, and the other descending.

They were close. The air was cold and the perpetual silence filling the citadel had become a physical weight that pushed her into the ground. The clicking of her cane and the scuffing of her sandaled feet were far too noisome.

At long last they came to that T intersection, and the right hand turn that would put her in front of the Witch King's office and that horrid wall of dread and icy chill she'd have to endure until the King saw fit to admit them entry.

Swallowing dryly she froze, taking a moment to steel herself. Fuinur rounded the corner unperturbed. A venomous laugh trailed in his wake echoing in the space he'd been. If only she could delay him, for even Fuinur was a far cry better than the king. But she couldn't delay- not without risking the Witch King's wrath.

She rushed around the corner, the rod tick-tacking across the floor with all haste, and she reached Fuinur just as the office door swung inward.

Fuinur swiftly passed inside, mercifully shielding her from the other's gaze. He bowed and shifted aside, while she hobbled to the threshold, eyes riveted to the man sitting beside a chessboard. Their gazes met, and her heart leapt into her throat.

Brenine couldn't look away from the blackness of his empty hood. The rod in her hand scarcely held her up as she sunk into a pathetically weak and shaky curtsy. She hadn't curtsied last time. She couldn't even really stand last time, and her breech in etiquette had been mercifully overlooked, but this time she had a feeling it wouldn't be. Not after the days allotted to her to recover some strength.

"I've brought the whelp as thou requested."

She felt Fuinur's gaze boring into her. Then he made noise similar to a snort. "I had word sent to acquire more… appropriate clothing for her. I hope that was not out of line." Contempt laced his soft spoken words.

Brenine shuddered. But in truth she hardly cared. Dresses, as those in the mind of a man so archaic were the only article of clothing 'appropriate' for her to wear. In truth she had nothing against dresses, having owned quite a few of them, but their bulk had made escaping the wiles of idiot men and obnoxious suitors rather difficult. That at least, would be one thing she would not have fear from the nazgul….

"It is of no harm. I had thy cousin see to the acquisition of some new garments. I thought it time to have new cloaks made as well. Assuming things are on track we all shall each be acquiring new garments."

"I'm sure the Lieutenant of Dol Guldur will be pleasantly surprised."

Fuinur sounded like he couldn't have cared less about the opinions of Dol Guldur's Lieutenant.

Brenine bit her lip. She'd heard of the old fortress in Mirkwood, and the stories of it having once been haunted by a necromancer- a necromancer that had turned out to be the Dark Lord himself. Since then the elves had been beset by terrors in their realm, or so she'd heard.

News from elves anywhere in the world rarely came to Minas Tirith. That which did was often was often out dated, and the elves of Mirkwood were especially secretive, or so she'd come to understand.

"Indeed." The King agreed.

Fuinur bowed to the king, before sneering at the girl's pathetic visage. He swept passed her, relishing the thrill of fear he sensed in her as he did so.

With a mixed feeling of relief and anxiety Brenine listened to Fuinur's footsteps recede and the door close behind him. Her eyes had scarcely left the Witch King, and she stepped back as he looked upon her once more.

"Come forward."

Swallowing Brenine obeyed not daring to act against that fell voice. She stopped when she was about two yards away; much too close, but she wasn't to move closer. So close to him, the darkness that shrouded his cloak seemed vast, more imposing, and that was undoubtedly something he was trying to achieve.

"Already, thou hast improved." He rose, towering over her. As he stood molten ice shot though her, and she had to fight her urge to scramble back. Brenine couln't help her involuntary step back as it was.

He loomed over her. Never had she seen a man so tall. He could tower over Fuinur or Herumor, and neither of them were short by any means. Standing over her, she guessed the shortest he could be was seven feet, and the darkness about him only made him seem so much larger.

How, how, how had she not noticed before? How many times had he stood over her in the Houses? The Houses had been pitch black, and hadn't been able to see much of anything, so maybe she could forgive her lack of realization then, but he'd handed a goblet of wine last time she was in the office with him and she had missed his obviously massive stature. How had she made it as a ranger?

The king swept passed her making toward the bookcase, with a rustle of fabric and a ripple of icy dread that stirred the air and send into her into a fit of shivering, taking his perpetual blackness with him.

"I trust thee found the room to thy liking."

Brenine took a deep breath searching for her voice. "I-yes-yes. The room is nice." She turned following his graceful stride toward the table and bookcase. "I uh-" She heard wine being poured, and for a split second she caught what she thought was whispering. "In truth I was expecting a cell. I certainly wasn't anticipating an arrangement so colourful. At the very least I prepared for a lot of black."

She froze as he chuckled. It was a fell sound that made her shudder and back away a few steps, but it sounded mirthful. It gave her some courage to continue. "I wouldn't have been surprised to find a bit of skull motif or a closet full of skeletons."

He turned toward her, steaming goblet in hand. "I think thee will find no such things in any of the bedrooms in the castle." He proffered the steaming goblet to her and she took it with the quietest word of thanks she could utter. It was so strange that he offered her wine.

"Do you drink wine?"

"No." He sat down, eyes focused on her. She looked away, taking a sip.

"Um…" She felt her ears grow hot. That question would most certainly be rude.

"Yes?"

She swallowed. "Uh this- um… it's a stupid question-possibly offensive even…." She stole another sip of wine unable to look at him.

"Do you choose not to drink wine out of preference, or can you not drink at all?"

He regarded her in silence. Brenine tapped her fingers against the top of her rod before whispering, "I told you it was stupid."

"No. No I do not drink." His sepulchral voice had slight lilt to it.

She looked back at him. Well he hadn't said 'oh no, that's not dumb,' but at least he wasn't offended. It was a feeling she had, more than anything else that suggested he might have been amused by her line of questioning. She wasn't sure such a feeling was safe near him, so she fell silent, nursing her wine.

The king was content to watch her drink for a time, his dark thoughts turned inward as he considered his plan once more. It was a fine plan; one that provided room for the occasional whim to rule him.

"A trifling matter has bothered me for some time." He raised his head, well aware of the fear that washed through her, as his gaze penetrated her thoughts and emotions.

"How is it that thou became a ranger? Last I was aware a woman impersonating a soldier could be imprisoned or put to death for such an act."

The girl's entire body was suddenly awash with chagrin, and she took a larger sip of wine than normal. Interesting.

"There's not much to tell."

Brenine took another sip of wine, effectively draining the goblet. There was no way she was going to get out of this one. It was horrifically embarrassing; her decision to become a ranger, and the last thing she needed was to give him a reason to look down on her more than he already did.

"I was a difficult child to raise. I was far too adventurous for a girl, wanting to slay dragons instead of dressing up my dolls, and it was something I can't say I ever grew out of. So when my parents began putting restrictions on my schooling, and prematurely introducing me to boys who like myself were a few years short of being marriageable I grew more rebellious. I hated the way they cut me from my studies and I found the boys stupid. Things continued as I got older. The men my parents sought to court me were just as stupid as the boys had been. So to escape the confines of a forced engagement I chopped off my hair and donned some men's garb, snuck out in the night, and the rest you know."

Brenine stared into her empty goblet, face burning, wishing that it would magically refill itself. At least, the nazgul could say something, so she didn't have to guess how low she'd just sunk in his eyes. A heavy silence reeled itself out between them, and her fingers began quietly tapping the rod in her other hand.

The ringwraith silently stood taking the goblet from her.

"If thou wishest, thou may sit opposite me." His voice finally cut the silence.

She stared at the chair resting on the opposite side of the chessboard. She'd be in arms reach of the nazgul the entire time….There was a window to look out of if she needed to distract herself and the wine failed to work. Sitting would be nice, and she had a feeling it was probably best if she did.

Her rod clicked across the space before she hesitantly sat.. No sooner had she leaned rod against the wall when she heard the clink of the goblet being set down upon the polished chess table.

"Thanks." She bit her lip, hating the word as it tumbled out her mouth. He deserved no thanks. She buried the distaste of saying such a word to a person so odious, by stealing another sip of warm wine.

The hollow grate of his metal boots followed him to his chair. He sat with a light rustling of his ebony robes. His hooded gaze never left her, and despite the warmth of the wine she felt cold and fear nipping at her.

"I wish very much to be regaled with the account in full."

Her lungs tightened and her heart sank. There was no getting out of this. "Why don't you just call me a fool and get it over with?"

The king tilted his head slightly. "I wish to hear the entire story, and then if thou wish I will inform thee of my judgement of thy character."

To bide time, Brenine stole a sip of wine, savouring the warmth. "I suppose it would be best if I told you about my family first…."


	10. The Rook

**Author's Note: I bought myself a new flashdrive. Unfortunately that will not bring back my poetry and cockatrices. Ryccin!**

**Disclaimer: I own my beautiful cockatrices in all their snidely poisonous glory. I miss my feathery little babies! I do not own the Nazgul.**

**Author's Note part two: A random idea came to mind. Since I love Herumor's interactions with Brenine I had an idea to write a brief ficlet. Because, even Herumor can get furious…. I love the conversation idea and if it doesn't show up in this fic, it'll be a separate piece.**

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**The Rook**

"My father was a minor nobleman and my mother was the daughter of a wealthy merchant."

Brenine took a sip of her steaming wine. Already this story was lame.

"My father being noble and my mother trying to feign it, they immediately started grooming me into a proper lady when I was born. I was taught to read and write, taught to embroider, how to dance, and a mess of other things young girls are taught. But always I was drawn to stories of dragons and heroes. Often I would play with the servant boys: slaying dragons, or…" riding with King Earnür and slaying the Witch King before Glorfindel could even think of rushing to his aid and uttering his famous prophecy. She wasn't sure the Witch King would like that little detail. "…or riding down-"

"Nazgul?" The Witch King smirked as her eyes widened fearfully, before adverting her eyes to the window and giving him a stiff nod. Still refusing to meet his gaze she stole a sip of wine.

"Those sound much like the typical games played by young boys." The king's cold monotone heldno emotion, but more than likely he was displeased, because she felt a bit colder… but what did he expect? Surely he knew the world hated and feared him.

"Well, I enjoyed them." Brenine frowned. He was right though; those were boy's games, and she'd gotten teased by them when she first started joining them in their play, because girls can't slay dragons. They couldn't laugh so much after she mentioned the Shieldmaidens of Rohan, but they did snicker behind her back from time to time.

The king didn't deign her comment with a response.

"My parents thought it strange, but they indulged me for a time. Then the boys got older, some training to wield blades and shoot bows, and I thought that looked so much more fun than embroidery and proper ballroom etiquette. I almost can't remember a time they weren't searching for potential husbands for me. My mother coming from her lesser background wanted to make certain that I married upward in society if that were at all possible, so they began to keep me from the boys and their training. They introduced me to books far less adventurous than Tar-Palantir- who shouldn't read Tar-Palantir, the story is amazing as well as educational? But I did something horrendously stupid, and those years of my father's 'history is important for all to know' sailed away like Earendil's ship with the White Tree."

Brenine stole a sip of wine. She must sound like a complete lunatic, and the quiet chuckle she swore she could hear emanating from him wasn't making the story any easier to tell or less lame. She swished her wine around in a glistening maroon vortex, in an effort to procrastinate, because her disgracefulness was going to be revealed in full shortly.

"What is it that was 'horrendously stupid'?" The king's voice still had that amused or mocking edge to it that it had held earlier. She topped swishing her wine around, and scowled in his general direction.

"I told them I didn't wish to be married- they wanted me to have children. I don't even like children, and even if I did I'd still be a horrible mother; far too self-centred to take care of them as I ought. And they'd deserve better than that- I especially did not want to have children, the men I'd had the pleasure of meeting in my life thus far were idiots- another reason I wasn't keen to marry-and that I wanted to learn how to shoot a bow."

Brenine traced the gold filigree separating the squares on the chessboard. Her next words were a frustrated sigh. "I didn't tell them in that manner, nor did I tell them all at once, but over time…." She looked out the window, catching a glimpse of the tiny red dots that marked distant torches. "They said my priorities were horribly mixed up, which makes sense. I couldn't argue with them on that point, because weapons and war are for men, and there are laws in Minas Tirith to prevent women from fighting. None of that changed the way I felt, if anything it only convinced me more that I needed to be out there, because I was useless to them as I was, and the life I was expected to live didn't make me happy." Brenine frowned, at the meandering torch lights. "But then they accused my tutor's, the lessons I'd been taught… even the books I read and loved as the causes for my dissenting behaviour. They didn't want me to read anymore, and if there was one thing I could never give up…."

Brenine emptied her goblet for the second time relishing that last bit of warmth. The King was quiet, waiting for her to continue, or mulling over the information she'd given him. Undoubtedly he'd use her obvious self-admitted love for books to manipulate her, and he'd be right doing so. A good book- a chance to read, even touch the Lay of Liethian- and she'd probably do anything he asked of her. That was a terrifying notion, but there was greedy little voice in head whispering 'it's the original Lay of Liethian. In full.'

Sighing she chanced a look at his empty hood. "More than anything I wanted to read, more than I wanted to learn archery. So I proposed a compromise. I told them I would marry a librarian; someone who would provide me access to books until I died. That appalled my father, and terrified my mother. She had worked hard to make herself presentable, to convince a noble family to take her in, and here I was, willing to spurn her efforts for the sake of dusty pages and a the thrill of adventure no respectable girl is supposed to harbour."

"Her words, while all of them were true, made me spiteful rather than submissive, so I did what every rebellious adolescent does. I went out and did the thing that would anger my parents the most. I told you this tale was pitiable stupid and lame. I convinced one of the boys I'd grown up with to teach me some rudimentary archery, and even a little bit of sward play if he could."

She heard fabric rustle, and looked over to see the King removing chess pieces from a compartment under the chessboard. Her heart immediately jumped, and she bit her lip. "I bore you."

"Not at all." She heard a soft clink and flinched as something cold touched her arm. She glanced down relieved to see a black pawn, and looked up. Unmoving the Witch King stared at her a moment and she felt herself flush.

"Sorry. I…" She looked out the window, finding the grey clouds swirling above the jagged mountains very interesting. It reminded her of a mouth. Everything seemed to remind her of gaping mouths; the shelves, the mountains… maybe she was crazy; she just apologized to him for jumping, or maybe she was hungry. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, some hours ago, so it was possible her stomach, finally getting used to food, was unhappy being deprived a meal.

The faint clicking resumed as the king set all the pieces into the centre of the table. "Is it always so dark here? Your home- what little I've seen of it is nice, but it is a little…." What could she say that wouldn't sound offensive or insulting? Depressing? Foreboding? Creepy? Like the Void descended to Earth?

The clicking paused and she looked over to see him close the board, once again hiding the compartment under a patchwork of white and black squares lined with gold. His gaze however, was on her.

"Minas Morgul, beautiful though she may be is no home nor will I ever consider her such."

Brenine stared at him with mounting sense of anxiety and fascination. Minas Morgul wasn't home to him. There was an edge to his voice, and it scared her. She wanted to ask him what his words meant, but was she allowed to inquire further was the question. She hadn't forgotten Herumor's warning. To add to the difficulty of asking questions, Brenine didn't know the nuances of his character- the shifts in his demeanour that signalled the closing of a topic, or the little gestures that implored her to continue. She didn't know, and her mind curious as it had always been was blazing with questions. Did he have a home? Where was it? Was it Barad Dur? Was 'home where the master was'?"

Absently, she began lining up the pieces on her end of the board. Her wrist was grabbed, and heart thundering she looked up into the empty blackness of his hood. Ice filled her blood, where the vessels laid close to the skin, and it travelled up her arm.

"I-I-"

"Black." He plucked the white queen from her palm replacing it with a black knight.

"R-right." She knew that. She should have looked first.

He released her and she hastily pulled away. She glanced down at her hand and wrist expecting the skin to be discoloured, surprised to find it wasn't. There was no mark, no hoarfrost coating her sallow skin or blue tint in her flesh.

Uncomfortable with the suddenly oppressive silence, and feeling his gaze on her, Brenine started setting the board.

When she assumed the king was convinced that she did know what she was doing he stood and wordlessly fetched her more wine. At least she thought he was, until she found the table and wine tankard placed, right next to her. It seemed he was tired of pouring it for her. In any case she was boxed in as well: the wall was to her right, the chess table and king were in front of her, the wine table was on her left, and pushing the chair back with her weak legs to escape if she needed to was going to be difficult.

He poured her a goblet of wine, and she distinctly heard him muttering as he did so. Something in the air about the goblet changed, like there was a glow surrounding it or the light of a nearby torch refracted against the golden rim oddly. Intrigued she took the goblet, relishing the warmth that seeped into her fingers all the while waiting to see if that weird occurrence happened again.

"Why do you do it? Why do you heat the wine?"

The king sat and moved a pawn two spaces, before looking up at her.

"It helps keep the cold from harming thee."

Her mind went blank. It did help keep her warmer. That was certain.

"I don't understand." Brenine moved a pawn. She was terrible at chess. And this man-he'd have her beat in two moves. The king might have already secured his victory. "I'm your prisoner. I've been your prisoner a few years. Why am I suddenly important?"

The King chuckled and she watched as he pushed another pawn forward from the ranks of his black porcelain army with a slightly louder click than before. "Have I not already answered thee?"

"Yes you have Sire." She answered dully, before moving another pawn. Maybe she could move her knight or her bishop forward early and surprise him…before he countered and merciless destroyed her white little army. Was it by coincidence or a trick of her mind that the white pieces each had the White Tree emblazoned on their porcelain livery and the black pawns were ferocious orcs? The rooks were Barad Dur and Minas Morgul? And, there, across the board The Dark Lord stood as king, and the Witch King beside him wielding a fearsome mace, flanked by nazgul and trolls-

"I can't play this game! I-I-I-" The bishop fell from her shaking fingers. She was vaguely aware of the king catching it as she shoved her chair back and doubled over as her vision began to blur.

A vice like grip latched onto her arm and she was shoved upright in her chair. The goblet, suddenly hot, was thrust into her trembling hands. Instinctively she latched onto it, and she wanted to hug it or pour it all over herself maybe.

"Drink."

His voice brokered no argument, and greedily she drank.


End file.
